


The Road To Baker Street

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All Roads Lead To 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Meet Differently, Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Meet Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Vampire, BAMF John Watson, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Doctor John Watson, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Greg Freaks Out, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Here be reincarnation, Human/Vampire Relationship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Idiots in Love, John gets hurt, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnstrade, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Parentlock, Reincarnation, Romantic Friendship, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is a daddy, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Vampire Bites, Vampire John, What Was I Thinking?, a bit - Freeform, just a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-22 05:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: An alternate first meeting of our favourite duo. All I can say is this: All roads inevitably lead to 221B Baker Street. Come hell or high water, the boys will live together in that messy flat and make their lives there.





	1. A Christmas to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes upon an abandoned child on Christmas Eve. This discovery not only changes HIS life, but the lives of those around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for safety.  
> ::  
> John Watson's been around a while, he's been places and seen things. But there seems to be one reliable constant in his world. That constant is a familiar figure to him, an old friend in a new body. Well, it turns out to be TWO old friends. Where there is John Watson, there will be Sherlock Holmes and with him will come Greg Lestrade.

* * *

24 December 2004 17:00

Sillitoe House, Colville Estate, London

 

As Sherlock Holmes slipped out of the nondescript blue door and headed down the steps with his backpack over one shoulder, his thoughts were on nothing but getting home and getting a fix. That’s what was in his backpack right now, ten grams of China White heroin. As he jogged down the stairs, he zipped up his coat and pulled up his hood. With any luck, he wouldn’t get stopped by anyone on his way home tonight. His single-focus drive was interrupted by a small sound. It wasn’t very loud, but it was loud enough. Startled, Sherlock froze, listening. He couldn’t hear a thing and held his breath. There it was again, a small, pitiful sound. It was coming from the nearby bins, and his first thought was that someone had abandoned a puppy or a kitten. But who would abandon any creature on a night like this? It was nearly freezing and it was snowing, for god’s sake! Curious, and a bit concerned, the young junkie approached the bin the noise was coming from and peered into it. There wasn’t much besides the familiar blue trash-bags, but one of the bags…moved suddenly. The noise came again, a faint, pitiful whine. Sherlock reached in after making sure no one was watching him, and lifted the bag in question out. It didn’t weigh very much, maybe thirteen pounds at the most. Whatever was inside the bag was certainly alive, but not for much longer if something wasn’t done. Pulling out his belt-knife, Sherlock slashed the bag open and got a look at what had been thrown out like common refuse.

“Oh no.” Not a dog, not a cat. Bundled inside the bag was a sickly-looking infant, maybe six months old, a little girl with pale skin, almost pallid and translucent because of her state of health, thick dark hair that was matted to her scalp, and the most unusual eyes. Well, he wasn’t actually sure what colour her eyes were, she couldn’t open them very well. Looking around quickly, Sherlock made a decision. Usually focused on one thing only, himself, he made the choice to take the baby with him. He couldn’t leave her here, where he’d found her, she would die of exposure or starvation. She had been abandoned with thin blankets, so he bundled her up against the weather and tucked her into his backpack, moving the kit to the front pocket so she wasn’t in danger of getting hurt. Tightening the straps of his backpack, he set off for home, arriving to find a familiar car parked on the street in front of the building.

 

In the forty-five minutes it took him to walk from Sillitoe House in Colville Estate, Hoxton, to Langmore House in Whitechapel, his brother had figured out his game and mobilized. Bracing for a typically unpleasant encounter, having anything to do with his brother was rarely enjoyable and especially tonight, Sherlock walked past the car and headed for his flat. The door was propped open, of course, and he shouldered his way inside.

“Brother.”

“Why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here.” His brother looked as he ever did, impeccably dressed in a ridiculous three-piece suit with a silly brolly in hand. Tonight, for the weather, Mycroft Holmes had added a grey cashmere scarf, a thigh-length overcoat, and a pair of leather gloves to his ensemble.

“You’ve gained weight again, I see, Mycroft.” Sherlock snipped as he set his backpack down carefully and extracted the kit from the front pocket, “Here. Now go away.”

“No, I won’t.” Mycroft took the kit, “How old, Sherlock?”

“Six months, maybe. Why would someone just… _abandon_ a baby like that?” He sat down on the bed and opened the backpack to make sure his tiny passenger was alright. She had dozed off during the walk home and hardly stirred as Sherlock lifted her out of his backpack. She was in need of a bath, warmth, and food, but her nappy was clean at least. He tossed aside the plastic bag he’d found her in and went to get a towel. Wrapping her up in the towel along with her blankets, he got a better look at the infant.

“She’s…small.”

“She’s a baby, Mycroft, of course, she’s _small_. She’s also sick.”

“I’ll take you to the hospital, then. Will you claim her as yours?”

“Someone else didn’t want her, and I don’t want to leave her to chance.”

“Be careful, brother mine.” Mycroft shook his head, “You’re very young, this is not a responsibility to be taken lightly, or in your condition.”

“I’ll clean up, I will. Maybe find a new place to live.”

“When was your last episode?”

“Two weeks ago.” He didn’t lie, he had learned his lesson years ago.

“Rehab, then. I’ll look after the child while you’re in rehab and help you build your life when you’re clean.” Mycroft took the folded slip of paper Sherlock had in his pocket. “Stay clean, this time, will you?”

“I will.” He searched the contents of the bag, looking for a note, “Whoever threw her away didn’t even leave a note, there’s nothing for a name or when she was born.”

“You say she’s six months old.”

“By my best approximation.”

“Sometime in June, I would imagine.” Mycroft held the door for him, “After you, brother.”

“Ta.” He held the baby close, wondering what he should name her. Something suitable for the holidays, perhaps? Noelle? Or Hope, maybe? Hmm.

-&-

It was quiet as his brother took him in the car he’d seen on the street over to The Royal London Hospital. When they arrived at the hospital, Sherlock went into the A&E department. At the desk, he gave his name and reason for visiting.

“It’s my daughter, she’s…sick.”

“That’s alright, sir. Just fill out these papers and take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.” The nurse said cheerfully. “How old is your little one?”

“Six months. This is the first time I’ve been able to see her, her mother didn’t…”

“Oh, that’s alright, lovey.” The woman patted his arm, “Left the tyke with you, she did?”

“No warning. Didn’t even knock.” Lying about this was too easy. Sherlock took the paperwork and went to find an empty seat. Mycroft came in to inform him that he was going to see about requisitioning a few necessities for the baby, and was gone again. After some shuffling and a little annoyance, he found a way to hold the baby and fill out the paperwork. He was ambidextrous, so holding her with one arm and filling the paperwork out with his free hand was the simplest solution. After filling out the admissions papers, Sherlock handed the lot over and asked how long the wait would be.

“Oh, maybe ten, fifteen minutes, love.” The nurse smiled, “Just get comfortable, alright?”

“Ta.” He sighed. Was he ready for single-parenthood? Was he _capable_ of caring for someone so small and helpless when he could barely look after himself? On the paper-work he had listed himself as the baby’s father, giving her the name Noelle Aimé Holmes and listing her date-of-birth as 14 June 2004. That was his best approximation. Mycroft was Noelle’s guardian and Sherlock’s initial emergency contact. Noelle fussed a little as she became more and more aware, and Sherlock walked her around the waiting-area, singing to her in French, which she seemed to like.

“Holmes?” A voice calling their name got his attention and he turned to see a middle-aged, motherly nurse looking at a patient-file, “Holmes?”

“Yeah. Here.” Sherlock stepped forward. The woman smiled and held the door to the treatment areas for him.

“This way, sir. So what’s today’s trouble?”

“I…don’t know, actually. Her mother abandoned her on my doorstep, never said a word, didn’t even know I _had_ a child.” He shrugged, “She’s cold, hungry, and needs clean clothes.”

“Oh, we’ll get her squared away alright! She’s very cute, looks like you a bit.” The nurse peeked at Noelle, who was gearing up for what looked to Sherlock like a long, loud fuss. Getting her to an exam room, they unwrapped her from her blankets and stripped her to her bare skin, which she did _not_ approve of at all. A quick weight and height and temperature were taken, all noted to be on the low end of the scale except for height, and the nurse gave him a warm blanket after they got a clean nappy for Noelle and then told him to sit tight and wait a bit, she had to go get a few things.

“Of course. I don’t have anywhere to be.” He sighed and held Noelle close, “Poor little thing. Who would ever throw you away?” When the nurse returned, she had a small portable bathtub, a baby toiletry-kit, and clean, dry clothes as well as a hospital wristband with all of Noelle’s information on it.  She had one for Sherlock as well, more as a precaution than because he actually _needed_ one, but it made him feel a little more secure in that no one was actually going to question a scruffy-looking twenty-four-year-old man claiming to be a single father. They bathed Noelle, the nurse showing him how to support Noelle’s head and body, and she didn’t seem to mind the experience very much. After she was clean, the nurse helped him dress her in an appropriately obnoxious Christmas onesie that was red with white stripes and the words “My First Christmas” screen-printed on the front in white and green in a fittingly playful script. She also had a bottle of formula for Noelle, who was probably hungrier than Sherlock, who hadn’t eaten in a week, and showed him how to feed Noelle from a bottle. Always a quick-study in most things that got his fancy, Sherlock got a handle on it rather readily.

He was holding her against his shoulder after her feeding as they waited for the doctor. The nurse, whose name was Cora, stayed with them, keeping an eye on things and keeping Sherlock company. She probably knew he was out of his depth, and for someone who generally abhorred human interaction, he didn’t mind her staying. She had convinced him to remove his coat and every layer down to his tee-shirt, giving Noelle the closest contact she could get. He was so tempted to just take his tee-shirt off, remove Noelle’s onesie, wrap her in a receiving blanket, and hold her skin-to-skin. He’d done some research and had read that skin-to-skin contact with infants was a good thing to do. After a while, he gave in and handed Noelle to Cora so he could pull off his tee-shirt.

“Holding her skin-to-skin, are you?”

“I heard that it’s good for infants. She’s probably too old, but I would like to.”

“Oh, no, dear! That’s fine! You can hold her all you want!” Cora smiled and quietly stripped Noelle, while Sherlock folded aside his tee-shirt. As soon as he held his arms out, she handed Noelle back to him. He sighed as the little warm body rested against his, noting everything about her now. She was too thin, too pale, lethargic, and colder to touch than he would like. He covered her with a receiving blanket and Cora put the larger blanket around _his_ shoulders.

“She won’t be going home tonight, will she?”

“Not very likely, in her condition. Poor little tyke.” Cora peeked at the little tuft of hair visible under the blankets, “But we’ll take good care of your little girl. You off somewhere after the holidays then?” It was a gently-worded question for a serious matter. Cora had seen the fading tracks on his arms. He nodded and held Noelle tightly, causing her to squeak in objection.

“Right after Christmas if my brother has any say in things. Knowing him, he’s already arranged it all.” He sighed, grateful just this once for his older brother’s meddlesome ways, “Noelle will live with him until I can take care of her on my own.”

“That’s alright, dear, we see it all the time. You put him on your papers?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sherlock rubbed Noelle’s back and felt her tiny muscles relaxing as she dozed off.

“Well, I’ll go see if I can’t scare up the doctor. Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the silly thing fell asleep in the break-room again.” Cora smiled and patted him on the cheek as he sat on the exam-bed, Noelle held close, “Poor man works himself to the bone trying to finish up around here before they call his number. Think the dear might just be out of time, though, he got a call this afternoon that had him in a bit of a foul mood.”  
“Out…of time?”

“Oh, he’s not in any trouble, dearie, don’t you worry your head!” Cora was gone with a wave and Sherlock sat with his legs folded under him, rocking a bit to provide motion for Noelle.

There were a few reasons a citizen could be called upon, and it was most often military service. Which meant the doctor assigned to Noelle’s case was getting deployed. Tonight? On Christmas Eve? That was terrible luck! But Sherlock felt a bit of pride, knowing this fellow was braver and more a man than he, for the selfless risk he took going to the military. Now, which branch? Army? Navy? Marines? Hmm, he’d have to wait and see.

* * *

***-&-***

* * *

 24 December 2004 17:00

The Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel, London

 

John Watson had fallen asleep on a cot in the physician’s break-room, just dozed off really, when a soft knock roused him. A gentle tap on the shoulder pulled him back to the waking world completely and he groaned, rolling over. There were only two people who would be brave enough to bother him right now, and he cracked an eye open to see his head nurse, Cora MacIntyre, standing over him with a soft smile.

“Get some sleep, Doctor Watson?”

“More than I’ll get in the next eighteen months.” He sighed and heaved himself into a sitting position, “What’s up?”

“You’ll like this one, a little something to brighten up your Christmas.” Cora held out one hand to help him up, “Sad story, but there’s a happy ending in sight.”

“How sick?”

“Not terribly. Underweight and such, but doubt she’s too sick. That’s your call, sir.” Cora tugged a wrinkle out of his scrubs, her fingers catching on the chain of his identification-discs, “Oh, you’re wearing this already, are you?”

“I ship out first thing in the morning, bags are packed already.” He sighed, “Goodbye, London, hello, Hell.” Specifically, Lashkar Gah, Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Cora smiled and squeezed his hand, handing over the patient-file as she herded him out of the break-room.

“There’s something a bit off about them, but I don’t have the heart to call the social workers.” She paced him a step behind as he read over the admitting paperwork. He’d been rotating through different departments of the hospital and had landed Paediatrics two weeks ago, so this was right up his alley. His next patient was approximately six months old, Caucasian female, below percentile for weight but typical for length. Temporal scans had returned concerning body-temperature.

“She’s borderline hypothermic, what the hell happened?”

“The father said she was left on his doorstep without warning, and he doesn’t know how long she was outside.”

“Jesus.” John ruffled his hair, already cut short to regulation-standards. He found the exam room and knocked on the door before going in, where an unusual and slightly heart-breaking scene greeted him. Sitting on the exam-bed was a young man, approximately five years younger than John, wearing nothing but a pair of heavy-soled tank boots and ratty denims. From the waist up, he was naked with nothing but a blanket around his shoulders. But there was a good reason for that. Tucked away under the blanket, he saw a glimpse of a hospital receiving-blanket and a tuft of dark hair. John saw the rest of the man’s clothes folded aside on the chair for patients.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Watson.” He gave the young man a friendly smile and got a shy, half-smile in return. “Mr Holmes?”

“Mr Holmes is my brother. Sherlock, please.” John raised an eyebrow, he hadn’t expected the man’s voice to be quite _that_ deep.

“Alright, Sherlock it is. Mind if I get a look at your little one?”

“She’s sick, I think.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” He smiled and stepped up to the bed as Sherlock Holmes unfolded the blanket and surrendered his small, sleepy burden. Sherlock was twenty-four-years-old, taller than most men in his age-group, with pale skin, curly black hair (almost _too_ curly for a heterosexual male, if you asked John’s humblest opinion), and the most incredible eyes. When they were clear, his eyes were an intriguing blend of grey, green, brown, blue, and violet. At the moment, they were bloodshot and worryingly dilated. The infant, named on the paperwork as Noelle Aimé, was lethargic and undernourished, but a quick re-check of her temperature showed a promising spike. She wasn’t quite cold to the touch, and he realized that Sherlock had been using skin-to-skin contact to warm her up. The blankets had also helped.

“Has she eaten recently?”

“Took a full eight ounces of formula about ten minutes ago.” Cora spoke up behind him, “It’ll take more than that to get her back to rights, though.”

“Oh, definitely.” He wrapped Noelle in the receiving-blanket decorated with candy-canes, “We’ll keep her overnight for certain, perhaps longer to get her back to stable.”

“When she’s released, she’ll go home with my brother, Mycroft Holmes. I have to…go away for a while and can’t look after her, so he’s going to take care of her for me.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” John rocked Noelle, who seemed to know she was in safe arms and closed her hazy eyes, “You’re not the first single father I’ve had to deal with, Sherlock.”

“You’re Army, aren’t you? Royal Army Medical Corps?”

“Yes, I am. Saw my tags, did you?” He chuckled and rattled the chain with two fingers. The younger man nodded, looking him over with those eyes, sharp even now, picking out every small detail of his clothes, down to the wrinkles in his lab-coat and the scuff-marks on his trainers, never mind the bags under his own eyes and the slight blood-shot quality to them that was a hallmark of a serious lack of good sleep. Not that John really _needed_ a lot of sleep to get by on, but it was the principle of the matter and the fact that he still did need sleep.

“You…finished medical school and are just clear of your vocational training. The Army paid for your tuition in exchange for service when you were done or were called upon to serve. You must have been called up and you leave tomorrow?”

“How the hell did you know all of _that_?”

“I observed.”

“That’s a neat trick you’ve got, Sherlock Holmes.” John handed Noelle to Cora, “We’ll take Noelle and get her started on testing, do you want to come along?”

“Can I?”

“You’re the child’s father, it’s your right.” He just smiled and waited while Sherlock got dressed again. “Do you happen to know her immunization status?”

“I do not, but I seriously doubt she’s had any of her jabs done.” Sherlock’s expression darkened, and John sighed. It was always hard when parents neglected their children’s health for their own purposes, usually selfish. John had noticed fading needle-tracks on Sherlock’s forearms and knew there was a history of drug-use in the family. He would have dependency testing done on Noelle. She didn’t show any typical signs of narcotics dependency, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a problem. It was a quiet walk to the phlebotomy labs, where he handed over orders to have a full panel drawn. As was typical of infants, Noelle did not like being poked at and set up a racket that John heard as he walked away from the lab to wait for them. Cora followed him out and stopped him just down from the lab.

“Should I call the social workers?”

“No, Cora. He may not be the biological father, but he’s the only father she’s got. Maybe the only _family_ she’s got.” John shook his head, “Wherever he found her, I guarantee he saved her life. Leave them.”

“Yes, sir.” Cora nodded and after the labs had been drawn they processed the admissions papers to have her admitted for observation. Placing her in a semi-private room, he let the little family of two settle and promised to be in and out during the rest of the night. He would be going straight from the hospital to the airport, he had his packed bags stashed in the locker-room. It wasn’t ideal, but there was nothing for it.

For the rest of his shift, John slept between patients and quietly reminded himself to murder whoever had convinced him to work a double shift the day before he was due to ship out with the Army. He’d shown up at the hospital at 1.00am and had gotten two hours of sleep between the end of his first shift and the shift he was currently on, taking cat-naps when he could get them between patients. John had mastered the fifteen-minute nap a long time ago and this was just another night of keeping up with a madhouse.

-&-

Finally, the end of his shift came up and he took a hot shower before he changed into uniform and collected his bags. Before he left the hospital, John stopped by to check on the Holmeses one more time. Noelle slept peacefully, to his great relief, her temperature and vitals were all tracking normally now. That was a great improvement, and he suspected she hadn’t spent much time in her cot since Sherlock seemed rather fond of skin-to-skin contact. Sherlock, like Noelle, was asleep. Not deeply, but it was better than nothing since John got the idea that the younger man didn’t _get_ a lot of sleep to begin with. He seemed wired differently and unlikely to keep normal habits. But there was someone else in the cot-space and John came up a bit short. The man sitting in the arm-chair, dozing off, was definitely family. And observant, despite appearances, as he heard John’s quiet, heavy foot-fall, he raised his head. It took a split-second of observing John’s fatigues to put the pieces together and he got that feeling he’d first experienced with Sherlock, that he was being taken apart and analyzed. It was weird, but John wasn’t easily ruffled and simply stood at parade-rest with his hands folded at the small of his back, waiting for eye-contact. The gentleman stood up and held out one hand. John smiled and took it.

“You must be the brother he spoke of. Mycroft Holmes?”

“Observant man, Doctor Watson. I imagine my brother spoke not entirely well of me.”  
“He didn’t say much at all of you, to be completely honest.” John glanced around the elder brother at the sleeping man, “I take it Sherlock isn’t Noelle’s biological father?”

“We would both be very grateful if authorities were not alerted to that fact. He discovered her in a skip up in Hoxton yesterday evening and summarily rescued her. You and the staff here saved her life.”

“Noelle’s not out of the woods yet, Mr Holmes, but she’ll be good as new soon.” John approached the cot, “She’s a cute one, that’s for certain. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he really _was_ her father, they look so similar.”

“We are going to use that to our best advantage, Doctor Watson. Where are you being deployed to?”

“Lashkar Gah, Camp Bastion. It should be…interesting.” He brushed his fingers against Noelle’s soft cheek, smiling when she huffed and snuffled, turning by instinct into the warm touch. “I owed them time, and they’re sending me to The Sandbox.”

“It takes a brave man to go to war willingly.”

“Well, the alternative wasn’t too attractive, Mr Holmes. Spending a couple of years in the desert fighting the Persians seems a pretty fair compromise to wasting myself in a bar or watching my sister do the same to herself. I can’t do that, I just can’t.”

“There’s a family history of abuse, physical and substance alike.” Holmes circled him, brushing against his uniform to get a feel for the way it fit, the way he wore it, “It takes an especially brave man to sever those ties and strike out for a fresh start. You fear very little, I think.”

“You’re doing that thing, aren’t you? Looking at me and reading my whole life’s history in my boot-laces?” John turned his head, “What else do you see?” And did he see what most unsuspecting mortals didn't dare look for and feared without knowing why?

“Suffering. Desperation. Undying hope. And a loyalty to your causes and loved ones. But…you have no family you speak to.”

“Parents both dead, years in the grave and good riddance to ‘em both. Mam was unfaithful, Da drank and smoked and beat us when he was sober _or_ drunk. My sister’s well on her way to becoming the worst of both of them, and I just can’t help her. I’ve tried everything.” John hated thinking of how bad things were with his sister Harriet. It was…disheartening. But the rift between them was for different reasons, and his parents had been a very long time in their grave if that was anyone’s business.

“Sometimes, Doctor Watson, family is what we make of it.” Holmes looked pointedly at his brother, and then at Noelle. “Maybe you will find your family somewhere. Find your peace and your purpose. It is a brave thing you’re doing.”

“It’s the _right_ thing to do. I like helping people, and I’m just reckless enough they trust me with a gun.” And it wouldn’t be the first time, either. He chuckled and leaned over the cot, kissing Noelle on the cheek, “You grow up to be smart and sweet, little one. Hear me? We need more good people in this messed up world, please be one of them.”

His phone chimed in his pocket, sounding a reminder that his flight was leaving in two hours. He groaned and gripped the rail tightly.

“Is that your flight?”

“A reminder. Well, I’d better get on my way. As tempting as it is to stay home…”

“You know your duty.” Holmes held out his hand again, “And I wanted to thank you…for your discretion.”

“It’s part of my _job_ , Mr Holmes.” John shook hands with Sherlock’s brother, “I’ll always do what my heart tells me is the right thing, always have. Your brother needs understanding and help. Are you sending him to rehab?”

“As soon as Noelle is discharged.”

“And then you’ll look after her while he’s in rehab?”

“My parents have offered to look after her for a while as I am travelling abroad after the New Year, but I will take her care when I return from my trip. Sherlock will take her on when he’s able, but I suspect she will live with family until further notice.”

“Tell him I said goodbye, will you? I have to go or miss the whole fucking mess.”

“My driver will take you wherever you need to go, Doctor Watson, I’ll be staying here with my brother until they are discharged.”

“Oh, it’s…well, yeah.” John knew better than to turn down an offer, no matter _how_ patronizing it was, and went to collect his bags. “Ta.”

“It’s the least I can do for someone who’s willingly gone to service for Queen and Country.” Holmes walked with him out of the hospital, he’d already said his goodbyes so it was only a few people he waved to as he left, and held the door of a town-car for him.

“Safe travels, Doctor Watson.”

“Thanks. Look after those two, will you? Keep him…honest.”

“I’ll do my best, but my brother can be rather stubborn and unlikely to take any advice or intervention gracefully. We don’t quite get along.”

“At least you can talk to your brother.”

“That is very true. Goodbye, Doctor Watson.”

“Goodbye, Mr Holmes.” He dropped into the car and gave the driver instructions to head for Heathrow. He made his flight with time to spare and grabbed a cup of coffee from a concourse Starbucks. After a quick breakfast, he waited with the rest of his outgoing group for their flight, and once they were boarded and airborne, he took a melatonin and slept for most of the flight. It would get him to Germany, at least.

-&-

Twenty-four hours after leaving London, John set foot for the first time on Afghanistan soil and already hated the place desperately. It was hot, slightly humid, and absolutely hostile. Just like the last time. Same enemy, same desert, slightly different armaments. He kind of loved living in a state of perpetual readiness, the order and routines of army life were quite suitable to his personality and interests. It would be six years before he returned to London for good, but they were six years he never quite regretted.


	2. When A Soldier Comes Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson, late of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers (5th Regiment) and the RAMC, picked his way through the crowded streets of a city he hadn’t seen enough of to feel truly at home in. Years spent in hostile war-zones had left their mark on him in more ways than one, and he was very much aware of those around him. He had been “home”, so to speak, for six months by now and he was still adjusting. He had a place to live, a small but spacious flat on Baker Street that he’d kept for nearly four years, a part-time job at a medical clinic, and a fine pension from the Army after he retired out. He had served three years in Afghanistan but had come home after a close call had wiped out his entire squad and left him stranded and suffering a concussion and a broken arm. It had taken two weeks for him to find his way back to friendly civilization, at which time he had accepted the retirement orders sitting on his desk. He wasn’t about to get worse than he’d already suffered, ta, so here he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for safety.  
> ::  
> John Watson's been around a while, he's been places and seen things. But there seems to be one reliable constant in his world. That constant is a familiar figure to him, an old friend in a new body. Well, it turns out to be TWO old friends. Where there is John Watson, there will be Sherlock Holmes and with him will come Greg Lestrade.

* * *

30 November 2009

London, England

12.00

 

John Watson, late of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers (5th Regiment) and the RAMC, picked his way through the crowded streets of a city he hadn’t seen enough of to feel truly at home in. Years spent in hostile war-zones had left their mark on him in more ways than one, and he was very much aware of those around him. He had been “home”, so to speak, for six months by now and he was _still_ adjusting. He had a place to live, a small but spacious flat on Baker Street that he’d kept for nearly four years, a part-time job at a medical clinic, and a fine pension from the Army after he retired out. He had served three years in Afghanistan but had come home after a close call had wiped out his entire squad and left him stranded and suffering a concussion and a broken arm. It had taken two weeks for him to find his way back to friendly civilization, at which time he had accepted the retirement orders sitting on his desk. He wasn’t about to get worse than he’d already suffered, ta, so here he was.

As he rounded a corner, he noticed a child of about six years hovering at the edge of his periphery. Suddenly, the child darted forward and around John, disappearing into the crowds. It took less than a minute for John to realize his wallet had been stolen, but he didn’t start shouting or anything like that. They weren’t going to get much from him, anyway, just a couple of pounds and an Oyster card and a bank card. He just sighed and shook his head, going on his way to follow the child’s path of escape. A child that young had no business being on these streets alone, let alone risking themselves pick-pocketing strangers. It didn’t take long for him to find the child, but the sound of a ruckus told him there was trouble. Hurrying towards the scene, he found another gentleman, older by ten years than John, holding the girl by the wrist, nearly holding her off her feet as he berated her.

“How _dare_ you, you worthless little urchin! How _dare_ you steal from me! I should have you reported for that!”

“Hey!” John called, “Hey, leave the girl alone! She didn’t mean anything by it!”

“You stay out of this, it’s none of your business.” The man barely gave him a glance. John frowned.

“Come off it, mate, she’s _six_. What harm can she possibly do?”

“She’s working for someone! Stolen cards equal stolen identity! I will not stand for that!”

“I _highly_ doubt that.” John muttered, “Did she steal your wallet?”

“No! But she was going to!” the man, obviously someone who thought _very_ highly of himself and very _little_ of everyone else, puffed up and looked down his nose at John.

“How do you know that?”

“She had her hand in my pocket!”

“Mhm.”

“You don’t think I’m serious!”

“No, I think you’re serious. But if this is how you treat those of us most in need, I hope the day comes to you when you are in this girl’s place and you are treated in the way you treat everyone else.”

“Why you…I’ll report this!” The man blustered, nearly apoplectic in his righteous fury, “I’ll report you to the police!”

“Be my guest.” John reached down and picked the girl up when she reached for him, “And do tell them it was Captain John Hamish Watson who had the guts to stand up to you.” Turning on his heel, John left the enraged civilian behind him, ignoring the man’s shouting and posturing. Once the coast was clear, he set the girl down and knelt before her, “It’s alright now, sweetheart. Do you still have my wallet?”  
“Yeah.” She held it up with both hands, sniffling and shaking, “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t hurt anyone, love. Did he hurt you?”

“He hit me.”

“I know. Hold still.” He turned the girl’s face to look at the mark left on her cheek, “Oh, that’ll clear up alright. What’s your name then, little one?”

“My name is Noelle Aimé Holmes.” The girl tilted her chin, eyes bright as she gave her full name. A warning bell rang in John’s head and he frowned.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Holmes. Noelle Aimé Holmes.”

“My God.” John covered his mouth with one hand as he studied the child before him. Was this really the six-month-old grown into a girl? Was this Sherlock Holmes’s adopted daughter? Where was _he_ , then? What had happened to them that she was reduced to sneaking through the streets trying to steal people’s wallets when they weren’t paying attention?

“My Da’s sick, real sick.” She said softly, shaking and scared, “I was trying to get medicine for him. I’m sorry I stole.”

“Wait, Noelle. Where _is_ your father? Right now, where is?”

“Home, waiting for me. He’s really, really sick.”

“Maybe I can help you.” John touched her cheek, “What do you need?”

“We need this.” She held out a list, on it was a list of drugs used to treat opiate and narcotics overdoses. John did enough work with the homeless of London that he’d started carrying de-tox kits in his work-bag. Folding the list into his pocket, he took Noelle’s hand.

“Take me to your Da, Noelle, I’ll make him well again.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Yep.”

“Oh! Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh thank you!” She threw her arms around him and ran off, coming back when he took too long to catch up, “Come on, Doctor Watson, come on!”

“Alright, I’m coming.” He chuckled and followed her to a tenement building in Whitechapel. Noelle led him to a small, cramped one-bedroom flat with its door propped open. It was dark inside, and the stench was almost overwhelming. John coughed softly and covered his mouth with a sleeve.

“Help him, please.” Noelle pushed him towards the bedroom, where he found the girl’s father passed out on the narrow bed. It was Sherlock Holmes, John would have known those curls, that face, anywhere.

“Oh, Sherlock.” He took the man’s wrist and measured a weak pulse. “What the hell did you do to yourself, mate?” Noelle pulled on his sleeve and handed him another piece of paper, on this was a list of drugs and amounts, each one dated. The idiot kept track of his drug use? What on earth for? Well, at least John knew what he was up against. But there was no way in Hades he would ever treat Sherlock in this pig-sty. Getting up, he went to the wardrobe and threw it open, rummaging for clothes.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting your Da out of this place. Go get yourself some clean clothes, sweetheart, we’re going away for a little bit.”

“Like an adventure?”

“A…what?” He looked over his shoulder at her as he pulled down several sets of clothes.

“Like Bilbo! An adventure!”

“Oh, my god. He reads you Lord of the Rings?”

“Yeah! Every night at bedtime! It’s my favourite.” She smiled and ran off again. When she returned, she had a small backpack. Inside were typical childish things: a teddy bear, a receiving blanket decorated with candy-canes with a “Property of The Royal London Hospital, NHS Trust” stamp in one corner, and a well-worn paperback copy of The Hobbit. There was also a copy of The Lord of the Rings. No clothes, but all sentimental things. He smiled and found a few things for her to wear.

As he zipped up the overnight bag, a knock on the door startled him. He reflexively reached for the gun tucked into the back of his trousers and looked at Noelle, pushing her behind him as he stalked the front door.

“Stay behind me, Noelle.” He whispered. Going to the door, he put one hand on the handle and leaned his full weight against it, “Who is it?”

“Doctor Watson?” Oh, he recognized _that_ voice well enough. He let out the breath he’d been holding and opened the door to Mycroft Holmes, who recognized him right away.

“Oh, thank Christ. Where is he?”

“Back bedroom. I’m taking him to Baker Street.” John flicked the safety on his gun and pulled down on the back of his shirt. “Rehab won’t do him any good this time, Mycroft.”

“How did you find them?”

“Noelle tried to steal my wallet to buy medicine. I travel with my work, so that wasn’t really necessary. You didn’t happen to hear from a particularly loud and irate member of the public, did you?”

“I assure you I will soon. He will be appropriately dealt with, have no worry.” Mycroft stepped into the flat like he was used to this, and he probably was, going to the back bedroom. “Will you look after my brother?”

“Best as I can.”

“Please try, he’s…”

“Very stubborn and unlikely to take kindly to any advice or intervention, I know,” John smirked and helped Mycroft get his brother off the bed after getting him conscious with a dose of Evzio (Naloxone Hydrochloride).

“D-Doctor…Watson?” Sherlock croaked, trying to focus on the blurry faces before him.

“Oh, good, you recognize faces.” John got under one shoulder, “Keep your mouth shut, Holmes, I’m getting you out of here.”

“Rehab?”

“Nope. Home. Come on.” He nodded to Mycroft, who let him take over, and they made their way down two flights of stairs to the ground-level, where they found a waiting car. Mycroft came behind with the bag and Noelle. Getting Sherlock situated, John buckled Noelle into the provided child-seat and looked at Mycroft before getting in.

“Clear that flat, I don’t want them near this place again.”

“You can’t think to take them on?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’ll need to be able to check on your brother’s detox progress in person and I have everything I need at Baker Street. I’ve got room for them and my landlady’s pretty understanding. What does he usually do when he’s not…this?”

“He works for The Met on a case-by-case consultant basis, but he’s not incredibly popular with most of the detectives.”

“If he still does that trick of his, I can only imagine why that might not make him many friends.” John shook his head, “When was the last time he fell off the wagon?”

“It’s…been almost three years.”

“Jesus. Well, it won’t happen again anytime soon if it ever happens again.” John ruffled his hair and got into the car, “Come on.”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft got in as well and ordered the driver to Baker Street. Knowing the Evzio would make Sherlock nauseous, John handed over a small bucket.

“That’s for if you get sick on me, which you will.” Miraculously, Sherlock didn’t suffer the nausea/vomiting until they were safe in Baker Street. Leaving Noelle with Mycroft, John shuffled Sherlock into the first-floor ensuite and sat with him. It wasn’t a terrible bout, John had seen worse, and once it was past, he got Sherlock to bed and tucked him in, giving him sips of water fortified with salt and lemon.

“I know it tastes odd, but it’s what your body needs right now. I promise I know what I’m doing.” He said when Sherlock made a face. “I _did_ go to medical school, you know?” That got him a snort and an eye-roll. The poor thing was nonverbal at this point and as a precaution, John gave him another dose of naloxone. After he stabilized, minus the reaction the first time, John left Sherlock to sleep it off and went out to see how the rest of the family was doing. As he came out of the hallway, he heard his landlady’s standard hail.

“Woo-hoo!” She chirped, peeking in on the sitting-room, “Just me, my dear! I heard a commotion and thought you might do with some tea!”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs Hudson.” John smiled, “Come in.”

“You’ve some company, do you?” She gave Mycroft a suspicious once-over. John didn’t have many friends and fewer callers, and certainly no one who looked like Mycroft.

 “For a bit.” He chuckled, “Mrs Hudson, this is Mycroft Holmes, and his niece Noelle. I’m taking Noelle and her father on for a bit as they’ve fallen on hard times and could use a hand getting back on their feet.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” That seemed to satisfy her. “Where’s the other one, then?”

“Sleeping it off in my room. You can simply add the second bedroom to my rent, Noelle will stay there so she can have her own space.” John took a cup of tea and handed one to Mycroft, who just nodded his thanks and fixed it his way. Two spoons milk and one of sugar. John said nothing, but he preferred to sweeten with honey.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m just downstairs if you need anything.” Mrs Hudson smiled and took her leave, closing the door on her way out.

“I will, of course, provide my brother’s share of the rent here, Doctor Watson, you can’t possibly be expected to cover three people in a house this size.” He said quietly, “And any expenses incurred looking after them both.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” John sat in the faded red armchair and reflected on how different things would be now. As he came to terms with the fact that he had unquestioningly opened his home, and his heart, to two complete strangers, John looked around the neatly-kept but messy flat he called home. And had called home in the past. And really, was Sherlock Holmes truly a stranger?

-&-

It was a quiet afternoon at Baker Street, as quiet as it could be with Sherlock Holmes sleeping in the back bedroom and his daughter sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, colouring-pages spread out in front of her with an array of coloured pencils and crayons, watching a movie on a tablet perched _on_ the coffee table. He sat in his chair, working on a therapist-mandated blog that nine times of ten never got published, Mycroft sat in the black leather chair on the other side of the room, going over reports like nothing was different about his routine, and they were all more or less in their own little worlds.

It was nearly 6.00pm when John was aware of a pressure on his left leg, distracting him from his train of thought. Turning his head, he saw Noelle leaning against him, her beautiful grey eyes peering up at him from beneath thick black lashes. She looked so sad and so hazy he felt sorry for her. Even after five hours safe at Baker Street, in the company of people she was familiar with, she was still anxious. The fluctuations in her mood were keeping John on edge, and he had always been rather...sensitive to people’s emotions. It was one of many things that made him such a good doctor, but it was also a disadvantage at times.

“Doctor Watson?”

“What is it, love?”

“I’m sorry I tried to steal from you, I just…I wanted…”

“You were trying to help, I know.” He leaned down and picked her up, holding her on his lap, “I am not angry with you or with your Da, I promise.” He brushed the hair back from her face and frowned at the faint bruise, “I am, however, _very_ angry with the man who thought it was acceptable to hit you.” He had never laid a finger on that bastard, as much as he wanted to, but that didn’t mean the man hadn’t taken him on his word and reported the encounter as assault even though the only person physically injured in the incident was a child.

“Doctor Watson, I’m hungry.” She said quietly, pulling him out of his thoughts. He looked at her, caught a bit off-guard.

“What’s that?”

“I’m _hungry_.” She tugged on his sleeve, eyes wide and pleading. John sighed and pushed her off his lap, going into the kitchen.

“Alright, I figured you might be. Let’s see what I can find.” He’d done the shop recently but wasn’t sure what Noelle would eat. Going through his cupboards and fridge, he came up with some leftovers from an Indian takeaway a few nights ago. It was still good and there was enough for Noelle.

“Do you like Indian, Noelle?”

“Yeah! Da gets it when he feels like eating! That and…Thai food.” Noelle beamed at him and pulled herself into one of the chairs at the table, kicking her heels as she listed off the different dishes she and her father ate. John chuckled and warmed the leftovers in the microwave, setting the plate on the table with a fork and a glass of milk. With the Holmes family, it seemed that favourites were Italian, Indian, and Thai, and occasionally Chinese.

John could cook several of the dishes in question, having learned from different people over the years. His roommate at uni had been an Indian emigre who had come to England from Bombay as a child with his family and was _very_ interested in sharing his culture with John, everything from customs to food. And in the Army, one of his lieutenants had family in Italy and during a deployment in Germany, had spent leave and holidays with the lieutenant’s very large, very boisterous, very accepting Italian family. The Christmas he’d spent in Sestriere with Stella Antolini’s family had been one of the most memorable and certainly one of his favourites to date.

He was still in touch with Stella, and with Stella’s feisty, opinionated grandmother who had taken one good look at John the first time they met and promptly announced in the regional dialect that he was probably one of the finest, most handsome men she’d laid eyes on since her own husband. He had learned Italian from Stella and still spoke it fluently, one of many things he owed her. He still remembered the look on Stella’s face when he leaned over and whispered “Did she just call me _handsome_?” to her. She had turned bright red and nodded. The whole family had just laughed and laughed when he replied with a rather broken “Thank you very much, madam.”, which had earned him the affections of the woman who had spent the remainder of their leave feeding him up and complaining that he wasn’t eating enough or getting enough sleep, and wasn’t it a crying shame the Army treated their officers so dismally?

-&-

When Noelle had scraped her plate clean, John did the dishes and sent her upstairs to the second bedroom. It was late enough she was due for bedtime. Mycroft went with her to give her a bath first and left John to a few minutes of peace. He checked on Sherlock, who was sleeping well, and went to sort through the day’s post. As he took care of a few bills that had come due, Mrs Hudson came knocking again.

“Woo-hoo! Sorry to disturb you, dear, but…there’s someone here to see you?”  
“Hmm?”

“A gentleman from the police, I think?”

“Oh, no.” John closed his laptop and went to the window. Sitting by the kerb was a marked panda-car. “Damn it. See him in, please, Mrs Hudson. Unless…”

“He said he’d rather not cause a scene and would wait at the door.” Mrs Hudson let him go past her, “What on earth did you _do_ , John?”

“Well, I didn’t get into anything that might get me _arrested_ , I don’t think. We’ll see about that.” He sighed and smoothed down the front of his shirt. He had been coming home from work when the incident had happened, and he was still in his work clothes. His blazer was tossed over the back of his armchair and his shirt-sleeves were rolled back for doing the wash-up, and his tie was loose around his collar, the top two buttons undone.

When he got to the front door, he pulled it open and stepped out onto the pavement, taking note right away of the gentleman standing off to the left of the house. About five inches taller than John, similar frame, prematurely grey hair, probably safely in his late-thirties, early forties, a bit soft around the middle but still in stellar shape. He wore a charcoal-grey two-piece suit, bespoke-tailored but worn, light blue dress shirt, black tie done in a four-in-hand knot, cuffs frayed and stained from wear, pant-cuffs spattered with mud that caked the soles of the scuffed black brogues, topped by a battered black mac. At the moment, the man was smoking as he glanced at his mobile, but it was very clear he was here on serious business. Hearing the door close, he turned and spotted John. With a casual flick of his fingers, he tossed the cigarette and ground out the butt-end with his heel.

“John Watson?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Name’s Lestrade, I’m with The Met.” Said in tandem with a practised badge-flip to present his credentials. “Do you mind if we have a talk?”

“Is this about the incident on Clerkenwell Green?” He folded his arms, “I never laid a hand on that gentleman, which is more than I can say for him. He never touched _me_ , Detective, don’t get me wrong.”

“Mind if I get your side of things, then? Because he’s about to press charges for assault.”

“Be my guest.” John opened the door, “Would you like to come in?”

“Ta.”

“After you. Right up the stairs, please.” He let the man into the house and followed him upstairs, “What can I tell you?”

“Everything?” The detective looked over his shoulder, “What _happened_ out there?”

“If anyone should be charged with assault, it’s that man. He hit a little girl and accused her of stealing his wallet when she had never even touched him.”

“Stealing his…what? Wait, what?”

“Sit down, Detective. I didn’t say it was a happy incident, to begin with.”

“How the hell did _you_ get involved, then?”

“Because she stole _my_ wallet and I followed her instead of causing a scene.” He motioned for the detective to sit in the black chair across from his once they were inside the flat proper, “Tea?”

“Uh, yeah. Ta. So, wait, your wallet was stolen?”

“I got it back real quick, the girl was just trying to help her father.”

“But…that’s still _stealing_.” Lestrade looked up from his notebook, trying to piece this whole mess together.

“I am not going to press charges against a six-year-old child, Detective, that’s ridiculous!” He leaned against the counter, “I can’t, it’s…all wrong.”

“So what happened?”

“I’m a _doctor_ , what do you think happened?”

“You helped these people?”

“You bet your badge I helped them.” He looked up at the ceiling, “I brought them both back here, they’ll stay with me until further notice, probably permanently.”

“Who…I hate to ask, citing confidentiality, but…can I ask names?”

“Come on back, I’ll _show_ you.” He smirked, “Might be one of yours, actually.”

“One of…mine?” Lestrade got up and trailed him to the back bedroom, “What’s going on, Watson?”

“Do you know that man?” He pointed to the slumbering, recovering junkie in his bed.

“Oh my god.” It was an exhale, “That’s Sherlock Holmes!”

“And the girl who stole my wallet and got herself beaten by that moron over on Clerkenwell Green is his daughter, Noelle.” John let Lestrade inspect Sherlock for himself, “Please don’t wake him up, he’s desperately in need of sleep.”

“Jesus Christ. What was it this time?”

“Heroin. Gave him a couple of doses of Narcan and let him sleep it off.”

“And, uh, where’s…where’s Noelle?”

“Upstairs. Hopefully asleep, God knows the little thing needs her rest.” John closed the door once Lestrade had reassured himself and fixed tea for the two of them. “How do you take your tea, Inspector?”

“Uh, one sugar no milk.” Lestrade leaned against the range. “You’re taking this well.”

“I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I figured it was just a matter of time before someone showed up looking for me.” John smiled and handed over a cuppa sweetened with honey, “That’s got honey, not sugar. Tastes better in my opinion. You didn’t happen to notice the black car parked in front of my house, did you?”

“Yeah, thought I recognized it.” Lestrade took a sip of the tea, “Oh, ta. Thanks for this.”

“You look like you could use coffee more, but that’ll do you for now.”

“So, I think I know why Mycroft Holmes is up here, where is he?” Lestrade blew steam off the rim of his cup and raised an eyebrow. John pointed at the ceiling.

“Ah. Figures. He’s always been _very_ fond of Noelle. She’s just a sweet girl.”

“How do you know the Holmes family?”

“It’s a long, weird story.”

“Aren’t they _always_?” He chuckled and listened to the sound of a door closing upstairs, footsteps on the risers. “And three, two...”

“Gregory?”

“One.” John smirked, “In the kitchen, Mycroft.”

“Oh, there you are, dear.” Mycroft appeared in the doorway, jacket draped over his arm and his shirt-sleeves rolled back, “What on earth are you doing here, Gregory?”

“Looking for your kind host, if you can believe it. Got a visit from a Leonidas Glass for assault. Said he’d been accosted on Clerkenwell Green, had his wallet stolen.”

“But?”

“I know better now.” Lestrade actually blushed as he turned to John, “Sorry about the trouble, Doctor Watson.”

“No problem, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.” He smiled. “Glad you believed me instead.”

“There was just something about Glass that rubbed me wrong, y’know?”

“What, that he thinks he’s better than the rest of us and we aren’t worth scraping off the bottom of his shoes?” John smirked. Lestrade almost choked, Mycroft snickered.

“Jesus, Watson!”

“Not sorry. You know I’m right.”

“No, no, you're right. Bloody git wouldn’t even look me in the eye when he filed his report.” Lestrade shook his head, “Asked for a senior detective and I told him I was as senior as he was about to get today. He didn’t like that.”

“Don’t worry, either of you.” Mycroft soothed, fixing himself a cup of tea, “I’ll handle Glass. He’s been a thorn in many sides for far too long. He won’t be bothering us or anyone else again once I’m through with him.”

“What, if I can ask, is it you do, Mycroft? I never thought to ask or research.” John eyed the elder Holmes brother.

“Oh, this should be a good one,” Lestrade muttered.

“I hold a position in the government, a minor one despite what you may hear from others about me.”

“Yeah, I believe  _that_  one.” John rolled his eyes, “I’m a soldier, Mycroft, not an idiot. What’s a minor position in the government?” To the man who actually ran the country? Not so minor after all. 

“Smart man, this one.” Lestrade chuckled, “Keep him around, Mycroft, he might be useful.”

“Yes, he is both very smart and quite useful.” Mycroft blew steam off the rim of his cup, lips quirked, “Proved himself six years ago, in fact.”

“Why am I not surprised you remember that?” John shook his head, “Jesus, that was a whole lifetime ago, feels like.”

“Nearly, Doctor Watson. Nearly.” That got a smirk.

“Wait a mo, you two _know_ each other? How?” That got Lestrade’s attention good and proper, “This isn’t a close relationship, I know most of Mycroft’s regular associates and I’ve never set eyes on you or heard your name before today.”

“I met Sherlock Holmes six years ago while I was working my residency, the day before I shipped out with the Army.” John leaned his head back and reflected on that very bizarre Christmas Eve, “This scruffy-looking twenty-something homeless kid shows up in my A&E with a six-month-old infant in pretty rough shape, claims he’s the girl’s father and she was dumped on his doorstep.”

“And you didn’t believe him?”

“I knew there was a part of the story that didn’t gel, but I never did a thing about it. He saved her life that night, it was _my_ job to keep her alive.” He shrugged, “I probably broke a couple of rules that night, but since I was gone the next morning I wasn’t really that worried.”

“None of the city hospitals had any record of her birth, so it is unlikely the mother gave birth in a hospital. Noelle is fortunate she survived infancy.”

“Jesus Christ. Did you _find_ the mother?”

“Oh, that was far easier than you’d think, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. John got the impression locating an errant, negligent mother was probably simple for him, both six years ago _and_ now. He huffed into his tea.

“How?”

“A simple DNA test was all that was required to identify the father, and it was a matter of simple deduction to discover the mother’s identity as well.”

“She’s not…?” John hesitated, glancing up at the ceiling again, “She’s…”

“Her uncanny resemblance to my brother is not mere coincidence, Doctor Watson. She is, in fact, his biological daughter.”

“Jesus! What were the _chances_?”

“Astronomically out of her favour, and yet, here she is.”

“My God.” He breathed out slowly, “Oh, Mycroft.”

“The mother has no contact with the child and no say in her daily life.”

“Good!” John relaxed his fingers on his cup before it broke under his hands, “How long did it take to get her over her NAS?”

“Three months past her discharge from hospital when Sherlock went into rehab.”

“Oh my god.” John sat down at the kitchen table, “Mycroft…”

“Our parents and I ensured that she was safe, healthy, and well-looked after. Her childhood has been far better than my own at her age. Until this afternoon, it had been three years since his last overdose.”

“Thank god I _found_ them!”

“Do you have the means to take them on, though, Doctor Watson?”

“I should be able to manage.” He put his head in his heads, “And I would rather them be here, where I can look after them properly, than worry about Noelle at her grandparents’ and Sherlock in rehab again. No, no, no. It’s time to make a stable home for both of them.”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson.” He was aware of a hand on his shoulder, the quick, soft pressure, and let out the breath he’d been holding. “Do look after my brother for me.”

“Yeah, will do.” He was aware of someone taking the cup away but didn’t raise his head at all. John heard Lestrade and Mycroft speaking in soft tones and was aware of them leaving together.

“I will be in touch, Doctor Watson. Thank you.”

“Yeah. I’ll…be here.” He put his head down, he had to. It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps on the stairs again and something was put down by him on the table.

“Get that filled out and back to me when your head’s on straight, lad. No rush.” The hand on his shoulder now was Lestrade’s, and John pushed up on his elbows to look over his shoulder at the kind detective.

“You owe me that story, Detective Lestrade. How the hell do you know the Holmeses?”

“Told you it was a long story.”

“Aren’t they always? What’s the short version?”

“Picked up Sherlock Holmes on a crime-scene when he showed up without warning, tripping on God knows what and high as a kite. He was going on and on about the whole mess, spitting details no one could possibly know without being involved.”

“You arrested him thinking he was the suspect?”

“He wasn’t, not even close, but we didn’t know that at the time. We had nothing to go on and this _kid_ shows up out of nowhere. What were we supposed to think?”

“Don’t blame you.” John snickered, “And when Big Brother bailed him out?”

“Two days in the tank before anyone came to fish him out, he was pretty much sober by then, and mad as hell. I won’t tell you what he said about us, but it wasn’t very nice.”

“I imagine it might not have been.” He pulled the packet of stapled papers towards him and got a functioning biro. John filled out the police-report, careful to do everything properly. While he did that, he was aware of Lestrade moving around. The clatter of dishes got his attention and he looked up.

“Er, what are you doing?”

“Nothing you should worry about, I know my way around a bachelor’s kitchen, Watson. Finish what you’re doing.” Lestrade flashed him a wry smile that felt a bit patronizing, but John couldn’t be arsed to care. The man, a complete stranger half an hour ago, was unloading the dishwasher and stacking the next load once it was empty. He shrugged and finished the reports while he got a clean kitchen out of the bargain. Once the wash-up was done, Lestrade went back to check on Sherlock, who was sound asleep. John left the completed report on the table and went upstairs to check on Noelle, who seemed alright despite being in a strange house.

Going back downstairs, John heard voices in the kitchen and stopped on the stairs. It was Lestrade, calling in to clock out for the night. This had been his last call, reports would be filed in the morning. Aha. John shook his head and passed through the kitchen to the bedroom, taking a minute to dig out something more comfortable than his work-clothes. Settling on a pair of denims and a grey tee-shirt emblazoned with the RAMC coat-of-arms, he changed in the bathroom and came out again to find Lestrade leaning against the kitchen table, mobile in hand.

“Well?”

“You were the most fun I had today, Doctor Watson. I’d say thank you, but that doesn’t seem right.”

“That’s fine. Good luck with the paperwork for this one, I do not envy you.”

“Glass was a real prick, wasn’t he?”

“That’s a word for him.” John went down to the street-door with Lestrade, “I mean, seriously, who hits a child? That’s just not on.”

“Some people don’t care for any but themselves.”

“I had family like that. Might be why I got so worked up when Glass hit Noelle. I didn’t react, but I was fuming.”

“You did a good thing, Watson. Here’s my card.” Lestrade handed over a business card, “If you ever need anything, just give me a call. If you need a hand wrangling Sherlock or just a pint at the pub some night.”

“Really?”

“Really. I like you, you’re not like most of them. And whatever you did for the Holmeses, Mycroft _really_ likes you. That’s a special thing, he doesn’t like anyone.”

“It’s a mutual respect, I think.” John ruffled his hair, “Well, that’s just it then. I guess I’ll see you around, then?”

“Probably more of me than you’d like, son.” Lestrade smiled and held out one hand, “Take care of yourself, right?”

“Yeah, thanks. You too.” He watched from the stoop as Lestrade got into the Panda-car and drove off. Once the car was out of sight, John went back inside, locked up for the night, and headed upstairs to 221B. He did a last check on Sherlock and Noelle. They were both asleep. He grabbed a pillow and made a bed for himself on the couch. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do until he figured out more permanent arrangements. 

-&-

Early the next morning, John was up at his usual time and showered and dressed in record time. He packed his work-bag and went upstairs to get Noelle up for the day. Sherlock was still asleep, and he was content to let the recovering junkie keep his own schedule. Noelle was quiet and subdued this morning, as to be expected for all of the madness of yesterday evening, but John was very patient with her.

“Hi there. Sleep well, did you?” He asked softly as he entered her room after knocking first.

“Are we safe here?” She held her arms up in that universal request to be held. John smiled and picked her up, carrying her to the half-bath down the hall, “Is Da safe?”

“He’s asleep right now, love. Sound asleep and very safe. So are you. Come on, let’s get you ready for the day.” He helped her get dressed after letting her pick out clothes and took her downstairs for breakfast. “What sounds good for breakfast?”

“I dunno.” She looked kind of confused and he wondered how often she got to _eat_ breakfast. John sighed and fixed her some toast with jam and milk. She spotted the yoghurt on the middle shelf and asked for some of that, so he gave her some with honey. Once he had done the wash-up from breakfast, he checked on Sherlock again and knew he would sleep until noon at least. It was safe for him to leave. He had a half-day at the clinic, he would be home by one. Setting Noelle up in the sitting-room with a colouring book and the TV on a children’s channel, he set out to get his day started.

“Where are you going, Doctor Watson?”

“I have to go to work now, Noelle. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“Okay.” She blinked wide, trusting eyes at him, “Be safe.”

“I think I’ll be alright. You be good, okay? Mrs Hudson will come and check on you later.”

“Okay. Bye, Doctor Watson.” She waved and he headed down the stairs. John was _not_ surprised to open the door and find Mycroft Holmes standing on his stoop. He chuckled and held the door for the man.

“Good morning, Mr Holmes.”

“Doctor Watson. Off to work?”

“Just a half-day today. Keep me informed of your brother’s status, will you?”

“Of course.” Mycroft smiled, “My driver will take you to work.”

“Ta.” He slid into the waiting car and gave the driver the address, despite knowing full well the man already knew where they were going. When he got to work, he clocked in and started on a roster of patients that would keep him nice and busy until he left at one. All the while, he couldn’t focus. He kept worrying about Sherlock and Noelle.

When one o’clock rolled around, he was out the door and on his way home. He hadn’t heard anything, so he assumed things had gone acceptably well at Baker Street. When he got home, it was quiet. He locked the door behind him and went upstairs. Mycroft was sitting in his chair reading the papers while Noelle sat on the floor and kept herself occupied with stacking-blocks. There was no sign of Sherlock.

“Any movement from the bedroom?”

“None beyond a brief surfacing to use the loo and eat something.”

“Did he say anything?” John set his things down and went looking for food.

“He asked where you’d gone.”

“And you told him I’d gone to work.” He found the means to make a sandwich, “Have you been here all day?”

“More or less. I’m not certain your landlady knows what to think of me.” He didn’t have to look to see the smirk. He snorted.

“No, probably not. Poor Mrs Hudson.” He finished making his lunch and went out, sitting on the couch. As soon as he had settled, Noelle hopped to her feet and climbed up next to him.

“Hi, Doctor Watson!”

“Hello, Noelle. Did you behave yourself for your uncle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did she?” He knew children could be consummate liars and looked at Mycroft. Who nodded behind folded hands. “Well, that’s fine.”

“Did you do anything fun today?”

“I’m afraid my day was a bit boring, Noelle. But boring is okay sometimes.” He rubbed her back as she propped herself up across his lap, stealing crisps off his plate, “Are you hungry, then?”

“No, I just want some of yours.”

“Alright then.” He chuckled, “Things are going to be a bit different now, aren’t they?”

“Is that…good?” She looked up at him, eyes worried.

“That’s very good. Don’t you worry that pretty little head.” He ruffled her hair, “You’re a good girl, Noelle.”

“Doctor Watson?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I go to school?” She was watching the telly now, whatever programme was on at the moment, but the question still took him by surprise. He looked over at Mycroft, who nodded.

“Do you _want_ to go to school, Noelle?”

 “Sort of.”

“I don’t see why you can’t. I certainly won’t stop you.” He set his plate and glass aside on the coffee-table, “You’re a smart girl.” He was a little surprised she wasn’t already _in_ school but could imagine that Noelle’s education may have suffered a bit while she was with Sherlock, through no fault of his of course. She yawned and put her head down on his lap, and he knew it was time to put her up for her nap. Nudging her off his lap, he took her upstairs and got her settled. Once she was asleep, he closed the door and went back down to the sitting-room.

“Noelle’s been going to school, hasn’t she?”

“Yes. She attends L’Ecole Bilingue Elementary on St Mary’s Terrace.”

“That’s not too far from here.” He nodded. “I take it French is spoken in the family, then?”

“On our mother’s side. The Vernets.”

“Any relation to the artist?”

“A not-so-distant relation.”

“Interesting.” He tapped his fingertips together, “Would you mind taking Noelle on during the detox? Recovering addicts can be very violent when they’re going through withdrawal.”

“Absolutely. There is a system in place for just this eventuality, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft got to his feet, “I’ve taken enough of your time, you have my number.”

“Yes, I do.” He got up and saw Mycroft to the street, “Come by in the morning.”

“Of course. Just keep me informed of my brother’s progress.”

“Of course, sir.” John waited until the car was out of sight before going back upstairs. The rest of the day was quiet, Sherlock did not resurface, and the next morning, he had Noelle ready for her day and waiting on the street five minutes before Mycroft’s car arrived.

“Can I come back here, Doctor Watson?”

“Of course, Noelle.” He hugged her as they stood on the kerb, “But you have to stay with your uncle right now, so be good for him.”

“Okay. Be safe.” She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, “I’ll miss you.”

“Noelle, you really are something else.” He sighed, “I’ll see you in a few weeks, okay?”

“Bye, Doctor Watson.” She got into the car and he wondered how she could be so kind and open with a complete stranger. Well, that was fine, there weren’t enough genuinely kind people in the world as it was so he wasn’t about to question his good luck with Noelle Holmes.

When he got upstairs to the flat, he was a little surprised to see Sherlock standing unsteadily in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting-room.

“Oh. You’re awake. Are you hungry?”

“Not…particularly. Was Mycroft here?”

“Many times. He’s taken Noelle.”

“Of course.” The unusual junkie made a face, “I suppose thanks are in order.”

“Unnecessary, but appreciated. You have interesting friends.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Acquaintances, then. Your copper buddy is an interesting fellow, I kind of like him.”

“Lestrade?”

“Mhm.” John passed by Sherlock and fixed up tea and toast, knowing he probably wouldn’t be able to stomach more than that at the moment. He was off work today, which was fine, and he debated calling off for the rest of the week.

“How…how do you know Lestrade?”

“Funny story, that.” He snorted, “Sit down before you fall over, please.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“No, you’re detoxing. Sit.” He looked over his shoulder at the tall genius, who sat down at the table with a grumpy thud. “Thank you.”

“So?”

“I know Lestrade because of _you_ , thanks.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“Remember what happened the other night? When I brought you here?”

“Vaguely. Where are we?”

“This is my home. Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. You’ll stay here until…well, at least until you’re clean.” He shrugged and set a plate down with a cup, “Eat what you can, drink what you can.”

“How did you…find us?”

“Luck, that was. When you OD’d, Noelle jumped into action and hit the streets looking for help. Now, granted her idea of help was a bit unusual and dangerous, but I can’t say I blame the girl. I caught her stealing my wallet.”

“Oh, that…”

“It’s fine, no harm done.” John waved off Sherlock’s concern, “I did have to tell off a rather loud, unpleasant member of the public who was absolutely convinced she was going to steal his identity after he caught her with a hand in his pocket. I tried to reassure him that wasn’t the case, but you know the upper-class types, the ones who look down on the rest of us and can’t be arsed to give us the time of day?”

“I can’t imagine he took well to you coming to my daughter’s defence.”

“Nope. I didn’t care, I knew she’d meant no harm. He kind of sealed his own fate, though, when he thought it was a good idea to hit her.” John frowned, recalling the fading bruise, “You don’t _ever_ hit a child.”

“He hit her?” That got Sherlock’s attention.

“Yep. Pretty sure he thought he was going to get away with it, but, um, he didn’t. I got a visit from The Met that same night after he filed a complaint to lodge assault charges against me.”

“You didn’t do that, did you?”

“No, but I sure as hell wanted to. Nah, I didn’t lay a hand on that fucker. Some charming piece of work named Glass. Apparently, your brother knew him.”

“Leonidas Glass? The Tory MP from Hastings?”

“Same one.”

“Oh, that was a sorry mistake he made.” Sherlock grinned around a mouthful of toast, “Sorry mistake indeed. Mycroft’s been looking for ways and reasons to remove him from office for months.”

“Well, we kind of handed him one. Anyway, because I told Glass off, pretty much daring him to go to the police and tell ‘em it was Captain Watson who’d stood up to him, I got a visit from Lestrade. Turns out, he’s a nice bloke. Nicer than most coppers, if I had to guess. Soon as I explained myself and let him in on the truth, gave him names and everything, he was a bit of a different character.”

“Did he give you his card?”

“Yep.”

“Keep it. He’s a useful friend.” Sherlock went back to his toast, “Not quite stupid.”

“He’s a Detective Sergeant, I _doubt_ he’s stupid.”

“Have you met the people at The Met?”

“Not enough to…I mean, yeah, there’s a couple of idiots in there, but most of ‘em aren’t _that_ bad. He’s definitely one of the smartest people I’ve met.” John fixed more tea, “Besides, not everyone is as smart as you.”

“Lestrade is smart, and one of their best. Good at his job, faithful to an unfaithful wife, lord knows he could do so much better.”

“He’s married?”

“Mhm. Ten years to a harpy. Feel kind of sorry for him.”

“I guess I wasn’t paying that much attention to his hands, then.” And really, John hadn’t. “She cheating on him?”

“Shamelessly. Flaunts it, even.”

“Well, that’s just not right. Why doesn’t he leave her?”

“Not a clue.” Sherlock shrugged, “Pity. He’s a handsome bloke, could pull anyone he wanted, if he tried.”

“While he’s married? No way.” John shook his head, “Not likely.” After Sherlock had eaten about half a piece of toast and two cups of tea, he shuffled to the loo and then back to bed. John made sure he didn’t need anything and did some house-keeping to keep himself occupied. Things would be rather different at Baker Street from now on, but John was okay with that. He'd been on his own quite long enough, he could do with some decent companionship. And he would be happy to have Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: ASiP and BBC canon! I promise nothing but shenanigans! I hope you enjoy this, because I'm enjoying writing!


	3. A Study In Pink Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for safety.  
> ::  
> John Watson's been around a while, he's been places and seen things. But there seems to be one reliable constant in his world. That constant is a familiar figure to him, an old friend in a new body. Well, it turns out to be TWO old friends. Where there is John Watson, there will be Sherlock Holmes and with him will come Greg Lestrade.  
> ::  
> This is the start of BBC canon with my take (for THIS story, anyway) on A Study in Pink. After this, I kind of go a bit off-track and deviate from canon.

* * *

Two months later found Sherlock cranky, sober, and sprinting headlong down a dark street with John two steps behind. He veered sharply to the right, knocking aside a man standing in his way with no warning. John apologized to him as he caught up with his friend.

“Sherlock!” He shouted as the tall maniac tore up a set of interior stairs, “Slow down! Jesus!”

“Hurry, John! He’s getting away!”

“I think we’re taking the long way to catch him, y’know!” John huffed as he followed Sherlock up and out onto the rooftops of London. For a while, it was running. Running, even on the uneven rooftops, was fine. Jumping? Not fine. John skidded to a halt when he had to clear a gap between two buildings and lost Sherlock in the process. The taller man had cleared the distance like it was nothing. John groaned and hopped back in annoyance.

“Come on, John! We’re losing him!” Sherlock yelled from…somewhere on the other side.

“I’m gonna kill ‘im.” John huffed, looking over again, “I’m gonna kill him.” But not before they got their man, catch the criminal first and _then_ think about offing the stubborn git. At least, he thought as he backed up a little before taking a running start, Sherlock was sober now. Four miserable weeks to cold sobriety and another month beyond that for good measure. They saw Noelle every three days, so that helped, a lot.

John cleared the gap and caught up with Sherlock, who took off again. The chase ended when they stopped a taxi Sherlock had noticed loitering outside of a restaurant in Soho. Well, John had noticed it first and wondered about a taxi just…sitting there. One passenger, not getting in or out. Odd. That observation had led them to this. Unfortunately, it was a false lead, neither the passenger nor the driver was the suspect. Damn. Apologising for the delay, they headed back to Baker Street on foot.

“That was probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” John coughed as he leaned against the foyer wall once they were inside.

“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock giggled.

“That wasn’t _just_ me.” He rolled his eyes. Sherlock just grinned at him and John wondered if this is how his life would be. Random, mad late-night sprints through London chasing down leads and criminals. Honestly, he was okay with it. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor upstairs broke up the moment and John shared a look with Sherlock.

“What was that?”

“It sounded heavy. Metallic.” Sherlock muttered. John glanced at the door and frowned. Muffled voices drifted from upstairs and he stiffened.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” He muttered. Going to the door, he yanked it open and scanned the street outside for the cars he’d missed before. Two of them. Damn it.

“Sherlock?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” he closed the door again and looked over his shoulder, “Mrs Hudson!”

“Sherlock! John! What have you done?” Their landlady came out of her flat in a fit, very displeased. Not with them, per say, but certainly with their unwanted company.

“It’s alright, Mrs Hudson. How many are there?”

“Just five. That nice detective you know came with them.”

“Unofficial raid. If they break anything.” He started up the stairs with Sherlock behind him, “Probably don’t even have a warrant.”

“What are they _looking_ for?”

“That suitcase, if I had to guess.” He shoved the door open, one hand on the butt of his pistol, and glared at the silver-haired DI sitting in the grey chair. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t say it’s a drugs bust, cause it’s not.” Greg Lestrade had the guts to smile at them, baring his teeth a little. They were all under stress, this had been a long night for all of them, and Lestrade wanted to be here less than they wanted him here. At least, under these precise circumstances. 

“Then what are _they_ doing?” He pointed an accusing finger at the four Yarders gathered in the kitchen, “You do realize, this is private property and you _could_ have asked instead of breaking into my house? My house, Greg!”

“Sorry, mate.” He got the feeling this wasn’t Lestrade’s idea at all, that he’d been bullied into coming along just to make sure his guys didn’t break anything or take anything they weren’t supposed to touch.

“But we found the suitcase!” Philip Anderson, a ferret-faced little prick of a Forensics Specialist, sneered from the kitchen, “In the hands of our favourite psychopath.”

“I’m not a…” Sherlock geared up to tell him off, but John stopped him. He turned on the specialist, who had rubbed him wrong the first time they’d met earlier that evening.

“Anderson, was it?”

“Yeah?”

“Right. I remember you.” He put himself between Sherlock, Lestrade, and the team in the kitchen, “Was this your idea, then? Yours and hers?” He nodded to the dark-skinned woman behind Anderson. Sally Donovan, she was Lestrade's sergeant. Caught red-handed, the pair exchanged a guilty look. He snorted.

“Thought so! Didn’t even have proper warrants, did you? Just came right over here from the Brixton scene and let yourselves in? No _wonder_ my landlady’s upset! You broke into the house!”

“Not exactly, John.” Lestrade murmured, brandishing the key he had. John had a feeling his key had been lifted, duplicated, and returned without his knowledge during one of Lestrade’s visits and couldn’t find it in him to be upset about that. Mrs Hudson would have heard the noise, gone up to investigate, seen the police, and panicked. There wasn’t a drop of illicit drugs anywhere in the house, never would be. Sherlock had promised to keep the house clean. Had promised to keep himself clean, more importantly. He covered his face with both hands and stifled a string of expletives. After his day, this was not a good thing.

“Everybody, get out.” That was Lestrade. “Take that to Evidence for processing.”

“You’re not going to find anything. Her phone’s not here.” Sherlock said calmly, “We checked. Called it even. Killer has it.”

“You _called_ the…Sherlock!”

“He called us back, but we never answered.” John leaned his head back, “Thought we had a lead, but it came up cold.”

“Jesus.”

“Get a warrant next time, Greg.” He muttered, listening as the footsteps of the team retreated, “And don’t let your team bully you into sticking around. You could’ve gotten in, taken the suitcase, and been gone in three minutes. They talked you into staying. That…”

“I’m so sorry, John, I tried to stop them. I really…I did.” Lestrade, at least, understood how much he’d fucked up, and would probably be going after his team for this breach of conduct.

“You’d better go, Lestrade.” Sherlock said quietly, “We’ll call if something comes up.”

“Yeah. Got that. ‘Night, boys.” Lestrade stopped by John and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Sorry, John.” He didn’t say anything, he just nodded.

“I’ll get ‘em back here to clean up, don’t you do it. They made the mess, they’ll clean it up.”

“It’s…Jesus, Greg! Warrants!”

“Yeah, I know. I _know_. Sorry, mate.” Then, Lestrade was gone. Deciding to put his anger to use, John grabbed the notebook laptop and got busy tracking Jennifer Wilson’s missing phone. It came back pretty quickly and he frowned.

“That can’t be right.”

“What?”

“The phone.”

“Wilson’s phone?” Sherlock wandered over and leaned over his shoulder, “Oh. It’s _here_?”

“But…” He looked out the window, “How could…oh, hang on.”

“What?”

“Sherlock, are you seeing this?” He’d caught sight of the taxi sitting at the kerb.

“Is that a taxi?”

“Taxi-driver. Damn it, we were right!”

“Want to bet it was our friendly cabbie from Wardour Street?”

“Go get him. I’ll be right behind with Lestrade.”

“Be careful.”

“You be careful!” He hugged Sherlock, “Don’t get yourself killed!”

“I think Lestrade’s still here. Isn’t that his car?” Sherlock pointed to a silver BMW parked across the way.

“Yep. I’ll rally him up and we’ll be right behind.”

“Thanks.”

“Go on.” John waited until Sherlock had gotten into the taxi and left the house with the notebook in hand. He tapped on the window of Lestrade’s car and watched the taxi disappear down Baker Street.

Where’s Sherlock going?”

“That, Greg, was our suspect. I’ve got the tags for it, we saw it in Soho. Sherlock’s going with him, we’re going to follow them.”

“Without looking like we’re following them. Get in.” Lestrade pushed the door open and John got in. Using the tracking, they followed the taxi to Roland-Kerr Further Education College in Central London. They found the empty taxi, Greg searched it and found a mobile lab for building poison pills, and went to find Sherlock before he got into trouble.


	4. A Study In Pink Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for safety.  
> ::  
> John Watson's been around a while, he's been places and seen things. But there seems to be one reliable constant in his world. That constant is a familiar figure to him, an old friend in a new body. Well, it turns out to be TWO old friends. Where there is John Watson, there will be Sherlock Holmes and with him will come Greg Lestrade.  
> ::  
> This is the start of BBC canon with my take (for THIS story, anyway) on A Study in Pink. After this, I kind of go a bit off-track and deviate from canon.

* * *

When what had already been a long, miserable night took a turn for interesting, Greg Lestrade wondered how long it would take John Watson to forgive him. He’d known as soon as John and Sherlock got home that John would be angry. They had no warrants, no probable cause, nothing at all to justify essentially breaking and entering. That wasn’t how Philip Anderson and Sally Donovan saw things, of course.

“He’s going to have that suitcase! That’s withholding evidence! Probable cause right there! That’s all we need!” Okay, fine. Sherlock had a bad habit of keeping evidence to himself, yes. But it always got back to them in time. Sometimes he brought it to them, sometimes Greg had to go and retrieve it, but it almost always got to them in the end. But his team was absolutely convinced Sherlock was hiding something from them and wouldn’t let up on it until he let them into John’s house. He knew John would be mad, didn’t blame him, but seeing the man’s expression when he realized what was on was scary. He’d only known the kind doctor for two months, but even he knew you didn’t just break into a soldier’s house, probable cause or no, and expect him to be happy to see you. Greg was counting himself lucky John hadn’t pulled a gun on them and ordered them out at gunpoint. He knew about the Army pistol, knew it was licensed, and wouldn’t tell a soul.

So, when he found himself following John through the darkened hallways of Roland-Kerr Further Education College, running against a clock that was quickly timing out, he knew it could be much worse. Breaking into a darkened classroom, he flipped the lights on and looked at the windows.

“John!” He could see the adjacent classroom, and two figures standing inside it. One of those two was very familiar. 

“I see ‘em.” John’s voice was calm as he pushed the window open, “Might want to cover your ears, Inspector.” Greg ducked against the wall by the window. The gunshot was loud, but he heard the sound of glass breaking. John was gone by the time he had his head on straight, and he picked up the shell-casing, putting it in his pocket. Turning the lights off on his way out, Greg called in shots fired at the school and requested an ambulance and back-up. John was nowhere in sight, but he had another problem. Running across to the other building, Greg broke into the classroom across from his last post and found Sherlock standing over the cabbie.

“Sherlock!”

“Lestrade.” The dark-haired genius looked up at him, “About time you got here. Has back-up been called for?”

“And an ambulance. What about him?” He nodded at the gasping man on the floor.

“Name is Jefferson Hope. Hired gun, so to speak. A bit dim, bit stupid.”

“You alright?” he got to his knees by the cabbie, looking up at Sherlock, “That would have been right over your shoulder.”

“Was that you?”

“Nope.” He grinned, “Not me.”

“Then who…?” Sherlock frowned, then shrugged. Probably wasn’t worth the trouble to work it out. He’d figure it out soon enough. Greg kept the cabbie conscious long enough for the paramedics to arrive.

“Give me a name. Whoever you’re working for. I need names.”

“M-Moriarty.” The cabbie coughed, “You’ll never get ‘im. Ee’s too smart. Too smart…for you lot.” Dying testimony, those were Hope’s last words.

“We’ll see about _that_. Get ‘im to the morgue.” He let them take Hope and took Sherlock down to get checked out.

“Yeah, I know you’re fine, shut up.” He rolled his eyes as Sherlock fussed about  being just fine and no need for the blankets and on and on.

“I’m _fine_ , Lestrade!”

“Alright, then. Start talking.” He flipped his field-notebook to a clean page and started taking notes. Sherlock laid out everything he knew and started in on a detailed description of the shooter.

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence.” Sherlock shook his head a bit, “He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service...and nerves of steel...” He trailed off, looking at something behind Greg, before refocusing with a start, “Actually, do you know what? Ignore me.”

“Sorry?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Ignore all of that.” Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with one hand and headed for the tape-line, “It’s just the, er, the shock talking.”

“Where’re you going?”

“I just need to talk about the-the rent.” Sherlock was not paying any attention to Greg anymore. He frowned and followed Sherlock’s line of sight. Oh. John had surfaced, again. Stood quietly on the other side of the line, hands in his pockets, the picture of innocent curiosity. Anyone who didn’t know better would’ve thought he’d stumbled on the scene and stuck around. Greg knew better.

“Really, Sherlock?”

“Oh, what _now_?” Sherlock turned to him, annoyed, “I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!” Ruffling the edges with his hands to make a point.

“Sherlock!” Now he was trying not to laugh out loud. He didn’t think Sherlock, or John, would really appreciate that.

“ _And_ I just caught you a serial killer...more or less.”

“Okay. We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.” He closed his notebook and let Sherlock go, watching the boys reunite. He didn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clear John was asking if he was alright. Greg went after them, not interfering, and watched as they were stalled by Mycroft, who spoke to them for a bit before sending them on their way. Greg leaned against the Jaguar once they were gone.

“Well, Inspector?”

“Your brother thinks I’m an idiot.”

“Which you aren’t.”

“Nope.” He chuckled and looked at his notes, “I know damn well who shot Jefferson Hope, I was _there_ , for Chrissakes.”

“Does Sherlock know that?”

“Nope.”

“I assume you will keep Doctor Watson’s name out of the formal reports?”

“I’m not stupid.” Greg shrugged and pocketed his notebook. “He’s pretty sore on me already, I don’t need to make it worse.”

“Even you know entering a house without warrants is a very poor choice, especially that house. What were you expecting to find?”

“Found what I was looking for, would’ve skipped out the minute I had it, but my guys were convinced there was something worth digging for in that house.” He ruffled his hair, “I’m tired, sick, and hate my team. Can I hate my team?”

“For unprofessional conduct in the course of an investigation, they should be written up.” Mycroft was not pleased, Greg didn’t blame him, “You had no reason to go into that house. If you had simply asked, Doctor Watson would have accommodated you.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just, this on…on top of Patricia…” He’d gotten the divorce papers that morning, hadn’t even had a chance to read them over or sign them yet.

“Oh, you were served the papers, then?”

“Yeah. Waiting for me on my fucking desk.”

“I am sorry, Gregory.”

“It’s…well, it’s _not_ fine, but I can’t do anything about it.” Greg sighed, “Christ I need a break.” Before he could say or do anything, Mycroft dismissed A for the night, took Greg’s keys, and steered him towards his car. He let the younger man drive, he couldn’t be bothered to care where he went. They ended up back at his place and Mycroft got him inside. He’d been living in a small one-bedroom flat in Pimlico for the last six months, but it was home enough for now. Better than staying in the house where the toxicity was stifling. He didn’t know where he’d turned wrong with Patricia, but it was beyond fixing and he was fine with whatever she wanted. Apparently she wanted the house and alimony, child-support, but she wasn’t getting a cent out of him. She would be calling about that, and he would be ready for her. The kid wasn’t even his, so he owed her nothing.

Greg fell asleep after seeing Mycroft out and taking the time to brush his teeth and change out of the clothes he’d worn for three days already, dreading the next day’s paperwork and mending. Sometimes he hated his job. He really did.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short one, Part 2 of 2. After this is where things get a little more interesting between John and Greg. I'm a devout Johnstrade shipper, and this is my foray into the pool.   
> ::  
> Thanks, as always, to the lovely, gifted Ariane Devere for the screenplay transcriptions. Without her, we wouldn't have the glorious words and quotes to share with each other. Always fantastic to have those resources available in a pinch when you KNOW what you need but can't remember who said what and when/where.


	5. The Beginning of Something Possible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin. The Beginning of Something Possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for safety.  
> ::  
> John Watson's been around a while, he's been places and seen things. But there seems to be one reliable constant in his world. That constant is a familiar figure to him, an old friend in a new body. Well, it turns out to be TWO old friends. Where there is John Watson, there will be Sherlock Holmes and with him will come Greg Lestrade.

* * *

Two weeks after closing a string of murders made to look like suicides, John escaped Baker Street for a night out with a couple of friends from med-school. Sherlock was on a private case and had an experiment running, so he was occupied and showed zero interest in joining John. He was only going because Mike Stamford had asked him to come out, not because he knew the guys well or wanted to be there.

After a couple of hours of drinking, he was looking for an escape. They had left the first bar and moved on to another venue. Some subdued place with a name he couldn’t remember. Excusing himself from the table, John headed for the gents and debated how to politely excuse himself from the company. He had next to nothing in common with the others, but that didn’t matter much to them. They talked over him, over each other, and he wasn’t drunk enough to put up with rowdy middle-aged doctors bitching about wives and jobs. On his way back from the gents, he stopped by the bar and ordered another pint. Halfway to his table, John saw someone he recognised. It took his brain a minute to catch up and he stopped by the table.

“Greg?”

“Huh?” The bleary-eyed detective leaned his head back and squinted, “Uh, John?”

“Jesus, what are you doing here?” Without thinking, John set his glass down and sat down at the table, “How much have you had to drink, mate?”

“Not enough.” Greg Lestrade was _very_ drunk. Drunk enough to regret it in the morning. John took the glass from him and set it out of reach, pushing his own out of the way and moved over to sit next to him, one hand around the DI’s wrist.

“Too much, I think. I’m the one who’s not drunk enough. What the hell, Greg?”

“Sorry. Just had a…really awful week.”

“Not because of us, I hope?”

“Nope.” Greg hummed absently to himself as John waved down a server and got a couple of waters. “What’re you doing here, then?”

“Came out with a couple of med-school blokes. Haven’t seen ‘em in years, don’t have squat in common with any of ‘em.” He took a sip of his pint and looked at Greg, “So, what’s up?”

“Ex.”

“Oh! Shit, the divorce!”

“Finalized today.”

“Oh, Greg. I’m so sorry.” He wasn’t, really, what he knew of Greg’s ex-wife was enough to make him hate the woman. Greg shrugged miserably and gulped down the water when it came. John gave him both glasses and kept an eye on him. He finished off his pint and closed out his tab and Greg’s, knowing it would be a bad idea for either of them to do any more drinking.

-&-

An hour later, Greg had sobered up enough to leave, and John ushered him out of the pub. He didn’t bother to look for or say goodbye to his group, figuring they were too drunk to notice or care that he was gone. Getting a cab, he ordered the cab back to Greg’s place, told the cabbie to wait, and got Greg inside. Once he had the DI safely situated, he left again and returned to Baker Street. Running up the stairs, he threw the door open and charged through the kitchen into the bedroom.

“What’s the hurry?” Sherlock looked up from the table, “Sky on fire or something?”

“Nope! Ran into Lestrade. Gonna stay at his tonight.” He threw some clothes into an overnight bag and grabbed his medical kit. “I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. Call if you need anything.”

“What’s wrong with Lestrade?”

“The divorce was finalised today and I found him drinking himself sick in a bar.”

“I thought you were with Stamford.”

“I _was_ , but Greg’s a friend I don’t mind spending time with and he needs me.” He rushed back down the stairs, “Don’t blow up the kitchen, Sherlock!”

 “I won’t!” Sherlock shouted down after him. He slammed the door behind him and flagged down a passing taxi, ordering the driver to Greg’s place. Letting himself in, he found Greg in the bathroom, curled up on the floor.

“Oh, damn, I saw that coming.” He sighed and set his bags down, going into the bathroom, “At least you made it to the toilet, yeah?”

 “W-where’d you go?”

“Back to Baker Street to get a few things. I’m staying here tonight. You need to get sober and not be alone.” He rubbed Greg’s shoulders and the back of his neck, helping him sit up when another wave hit, “That’s it. Just started, did it?” Greg shook his head miserably. John looked at his watch and sighed. He’d been gone about an hour, which he guessed was about how long Greg had been suffering. When the current wave ended five minutes later, he gave Greg some water, had him rinse and brush his teeth, and steered him back to bed.

“Just make it _stop_!” The DI groaned, hugging a pillow to his chest. John sighed and dug through his kit.

“Let me see if I have something.”

“Good…stuff. _Please_.”

“Roger that.” He went for the Thorazine, that should about do the trick. There were two ways he could do this that would get the job done quickly, and he ducked into the bathroom to wash his hands. Putting on a pair of gloves, he fixed up a single dose of Thorazine and set the capped syringe aside to pat Greg on the hip.

“Roll over, mate. Towards me.” He tugged on the waistband of Greg’s pyjama bottoms, “Come on, then.”

“Ugh.” Greg rolled as instructed and John got him positioned properly. “Wha’s that?”

“Thorazine. You will feel this, but I promise you’ll feel better soon.” He made short work of administration and waited for Greg to fall asleep. Once his friend was out, he quickly changed into sweats and a tee-shirt and made up the sleeper couch. John didn’t sleep well, but he did sleep a little better than he would have at Baker Street. At least he didn’t have work tomorrow.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I borrowed a chapter title from my other story "The Empty Rooms of 221B Baker Street". So sue me. It fits, though, so it stays. Also, it's 1.30am here and I'm tired, my brain doesn't want to function properly.


	6. The Past of the Future Possible Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John get some time together, and play a bit of getting-to-know you. Greg learns more about John Watson and what makes him the man he is today. The places he's been, the people he's known, loved, and lost. The family he doesn't speak of and can't forget. He hopes that maybe, just maybe, he can be happy for once. And if he can find that with John Watson, all the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for safety.  
> ::  
> John Watson's been around a while, he's been places and seen things. But there seems to be one reliable constant in his world. That constant is a familiar figure to him, an old friend in a new body. Well, it turns out to be TWO old friends. Where there is John Watson, there will be Sherlock Holmes and with him will come Greg Lestrade.  
> ::  
> This is from Greg's POV, following up from the end of The Beginning of Something Possible.

* * *

Greg Lestrade vaguely remembered running into John Watson at the bar, of John dragging his sorry drunk arse home and then leaving for an hour before he came back. Greg wanted to apologise for the sorry state of things, but John was a pro and didn’t think much of what he came back to, just sat with Greg until it was past and his stomach stopped trying to turn itself inside out, then got Greg to bed and gave him something good. Thorazine? Oh, that was beautiful, that was. He remembered falling asleep and wondered if John had actually stayed. When he stumbled out of bed, he was a little surprised to find John asleep on the couch.

“Guess you stayed.” He trudged into the kitchen to start coffee and look for breakfast. There wasn’t much, and he huffed. Typical. There was some rustling by the couch and he smiled as John kicked out of bed and grabbed his overnight bag before disappearing into the bathroom, where he ran the shower. It was not the first time John had stayed at his place, and it was unlikely to be the last. He put the couch back together and looked over his shoulder as John came back out of the bathroom, fully-dressed and hair damp from the shower.

“Shower’s open.”

“Ta.” He grinned and decided a shower was definitely in order while John helped himself to coffee.

“Anything for breakfast?”

“Not real prepared for company. Sorry.”

“No problem. We’ll go somewhere.” John tied on his shoes and settled to wait for Greg. He was off today, thank Christ, so he didn’t need to worry about work, and wondered if John was off as well. And to ensure that he wouldn’t be getting any unexpected phone-calls, he had traded with another DI. He took a fast shower, debated shaving and decided against it, and went out after he’d put on clean clothes. John hopped to his feet as soon as he showed and Greg grabbed his keys. John led the way to the street and flagged a cab for them, directing the driver to…somewhere. Greg wasn’t really paying attention. They ended up at a small place that had a pretty decent fry-up, and John introduced Greg to an unusual, tasty, and very effective hangover remedy: Bloody Mary’s. He hadn’t had many before, let alone any good ones, but the cafe had some pretty good stuff and John smiled.

“Like that, do ya?” John seemed very pleased with himself, “Best remedy I know of, outside of electrolyte water, sleep, and a full stomach.”

“I’ll be damned if it _works_! And I’m not real partial to tomato juice.” Greg wondered, taking another sip of the stuff. “But, this is good stuff.” John paid the bill, waving off Greg’s half-hearted objection that he could pay for his own meal, and Greg decided there were bigger battles to fight.

-&-

John got him back home and Greg situated himself on the couch, not real interested in moving much. When John started cleaning up a bit around the place, Greg let him.

“Oh, before I forget, John.” He thought of something he’d been meaning to tell John, and just hadn’t gotten a chance to in the craziness since they’d closed the taxi-cab murders, a case John had cleverly titled “A Study In Pink” on his therapist-mandated blog which he had turned into a blog to track his misadventures and cases with Sherlock.

“Hmm?”

“I spoke to my DCI, told ‘em about what happened the night we took down Hope.”

“Oh?” He could feel the tension spike and felt bad for how things had gone a bit sideways that night. “What’d they say about it?” Unspoken was “What’d they say about a hack-team of officers breaking into a private residence on a bogus witch-hunt for nonexistent drugs without proper warrant?”

“She wasn’t too happy about it, when I explained that we didn’t have any warrants and a bullshit reason to go in.” He didn’t like remembering the expression on Valerie Gregson’s face as he had shamefacedly explained that his team had broken into John Watson’s house without warrants on a spiteful hunch just because two of his guys didn’t get along with John’s flat-mate.

“Gregson?”

“Yep.”

“What’d she say?” John came out of the kitchen, dish-towel over one shoulder, hands wet from doing the wash-up.

“She pulled Anderson and Donovan into her office and tore into them for breaking and entering without warrants, never mind while the resident wasn’t even _home_ , and they should be damn lucky it was just Mrs Hudson at home and Noelle wasn’t there that night.” That had been Gregson’s first question when Greg went to talk to her. Gregson knew Noelle, had actually done a bit of babysitting in the past for them, so anything that put her at risk was a big flag and grounds for reprimand on part of the guilty parties.

“Told ‘em to shelve their grudge-match with Sherlock next time and ask before they ever set foot on Baker Street again. They’re not allowed back there for anything, only I can come over.”

“I like Gregson. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, doesn’t take bullshit from anyone higher or below her on the ladder. She knows her business.” John smiled and dried his hands, “Thanks for setting the record straight.”

“It’s the least I could do, seeing as it was mostly my fault.” He yawned, still nursing a bit of a headache from the hangover.

“Here. Coffee.” John passed him a cup of coffee and sat down on the couch with him, putting his feet up. The sound he made was low and pathetic, and Greg raised an eyebrow.

“Long week, was it?” All he got was a nod. Greg knew from experience that living with Sherlock Holmes was not easy, for anyone, and blessed John for taking on that monumental responsibility. As he sipped his coffee, Greg took the opportunity presented to study John. There was a lot about the young Army medic he liked, and liked a lot. John was fourteen years younger than him, shorter than most men but not short in much else. He was temperamental, even short-tempered when pushed, skilled, kind to those who treated him well and even to those who didn’t, patient, unbelievably forgiving when wronged, intelligent and street-wise, good in a close fight and _very_ good on a chase, unassumingly plain, which led many a suspect to underestimate the soldier to their ultimate humiliating demise when he got to take them down and sit on them until Greg’s people could get there, and handsome in a simple, unpretentious way. This was someone who could wear fatigues or street-clothes with the same ease and made frumpy jumpers look appealing.

Greg was a bit ashamed to admit that after their first meeting back in November, he had returned home to this dingy little flat and promptly gone hunting for anything he could find on the soldier who had opened his heart and his home to strangers not because he _had_ to but because he wanted to. He had pictures, a whole album of them stashed on his computer, of John in uniform, taken from records he had access to and a couple he’d needed a bit of help to find. He had a sneaky feeling he knew where some of that confidence came from and was kind of curious to know just exactly _how_ the stocky blond had earned his Army nickname of “Three Continents Watson”. There was some kind of juicy story behind _that_ , for certain. Greg didn’t usually hunt young, but he had to admit a certain draw to the young pair of street-tecs living at 221B Baker Street. And Sherlock had propositioned him a few times in the past, usually while high, but he would admit to the occasional stolen kiss or touch in sober moments. He knew John and Sherlock weren’t involved beyond sharing a house together, some careful questioning one night at a pub had cleared that right up. Sherlock was Ace or Gray, and John was…something a bit off-centre of straight. He suspected bisexual, very closeted, but he knew about a couple of his young friend’s past exploits. Not a shy one, when you got him in the right mood. And John…he was kind of Greg’s type, in every way that mattered. He sighed, feeling a bit miserable, and hunched his shoulders.

“That’s not the hangover.” John’s voice was quiet and Greg looked over at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You a mind-reader now or something?” He cocked an eyebrow at the younger man, challenging him. John just smiled and got up. Before Greg could ask, he packed up his overnight bag, the one he’d brought over last night, and tossed a couple of things into it for Greg. A few changes of clothes, everything he’d need for going back to work. Greg noticed that some of John’s things were taken _out_ of the bag to make room and he narrowed his eyes.

“What, exactly, are you doing?”

“Getting us out of here. Too small to be of use for any fun, and I’m _not_ about to take you back to Baker Street. Might be my house, but I respect Sherlock's desire to keep the house sacred.” John smiled and held out one hand, bag over one shoulder, “I never bring partners back to the house. Didn’t even before he moved in with me. Always back to theirs or to a hotel.” Observant bastard, wasn’t he?

“I thought I was being subtle.”

“You were, to those who weren’t paying attention. Sherlock noticed almost right away, I told him to keep his big mouth shut or else.” John held the door for him and locked up once he was out. Was this actually happening? He wasn’t dreaming?

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. Nice place, no questions asked, very discrete staff.” John trotted down the stairs to the street, where he got a taxi and directed the driver to Mayfair. Greg pinched himself; nope, he was wide awake. Bugger.

“Uh, did I say something out loud?”

“Body-language, Greg.” The clever soldier just smiled at him and nudged him.

“Some part of this seems like a very bad idea.”

“That nasty little voice that sounds like your ex-wife? Stifle it.” Those pretty eyes darkened, a wrinkle formed between his eyebrows, “Took me years to get past my hang-ups, please don’t get stuck on yours.”

“Oh, John.”

“Five years and a handsome resident. Lovely bloke, lost a round of poker to him once.” That smile said a lot. Whatever the price for losing was, he sure as hell hadn’t minded in the end. “I was trying to get my head around anybody flirting with plain old me and here comes Ricky Keith. Boisterous, lanky, handsome, could charm a corpse with that smile of his.”

“What happened?”

“I went my way, he went his. We wrote letters for a while, then lost touch. He was supposed to be at the meet-up last night, but he was on-call and couldn’t make it.” It was clear this upset John, and Greg didn’t blame him. He’d seen the group John had been with and couldn’t speak for any of them. God bless their wives, indeed.

“And then you got stuck with me.”

“I did _not_ get stuck with you. I took care of you, and I ain’t done takin’ care of you, Inspector, so you shut your mouth.” Ooh, and there it was. Greg had a weakness for what he liked to call John’s “Captain Watson” voice, had just about bloodied his knuckles on a case or two where John turned that tone on whatever unfortunate had tried to outwit him and failed gloriously and Greg had to keep quiet or embarrass himself. He’d gotten caught a couple of times, John had always just smiled at him like he knew exactly what filthy things were going through Greg’s head but had never once said a word or made a scene about it. John had this way of smiling at people that did things, very effective things. A benign, brotherly smile for Sherlock when he was being intelligent, but the smile he gave Greg was…lecherous was a very good word for it. Flirty, dirty, an “I know what you’re thinking, and you know I know” kind of smile. The only problem was John’s age. He was a young, charming thirty-three, and knew how to work his assets to make people trust him. It was amazing to watch him charm everyone from constable to superintendent. And funny to watch certain of his team go out of their way for him.

On a recent case John had reported to, trailing Sherlock, a very helpful constable had asked John, a bit at the end of his rope that night, if he needed anything. John had at first said no, but the constable, a pretty young thing just into her role on the team, had persisted and ended up bringing John (after a rather rude telling-off by Sherlock that nearly had the poor girl in tears) a cup of coffee from a nearby cafe that happened to be open. John, stepping away from the scene with the girl, had taken her around the corner and talked her down from a fit. Sherlock hadn’t been the first person to yell at her recently, and the stress of a very bad week had finally broken her down. John was there with a willing shoulder and a caring hug, the right words to set her to rights, and things were going smoothly again one shared cup of coffee later. Sherlock had gotten a blistering talking-to that only Greg had witnessed, but John had gotten his point across that Sherlock could do pretty much whatever he bloody well pleased within the bounds of the law (John and Greg were willing to let him break and bend a few rules in the name of justice), but verbally destroying one of Greg’s team who had simply asked a question was unacceptable. He could take on Anderson and Donovan any day he liked, but the constables, that was not allowed.

-&-

When the taxi slowed, John got out first, paid the fare, and held the door for Greg.

“Alright, out you go.”

“Where…are…whoa.” He looked up, and up, and up. They’d stopped at the Grosvenor House Apartments on Park Lane. “Wow. This is nice.”

“Come on, keep up.” John was already on the move, crossing the bustling pavement with purpose and Greg scrambled to keep up. He’d seen this place before, reported to a scene here once way back when he’d been new to Homicide, but he didn’t think he’d ever come here as a guest. It was the kind of place he’d expect the Holmes brothers to frequent, not John Watson. As it was, he didn’t say a word until John let him into one of the penthouses, only to find their small luggage unpacked and stowed and one change of clothes taken away.

“Wh-where are we?” He looked around, “This kind of looks like a place Mycroft would keep, for Christ’s sake!”

“Mm, nope. This is mine.” John smiled, arms wide as he gestured at the grandeur of the place, “Welcome to the Mayfair Penthouse.”

“How can you afford a place like this, John? Jesus!”

“Got a few things on my records people don’t know about or talk about. This is one of three houses I keep in London, outside of Baker Street. Just in case.” He shrugged, “I have everything needed to keep a safe-house for Sherlock and Noelle if something comes up, and the ability to disappear if that needs to happen.”

“Things on your record…?” Greg sat down on the couch, looking around. He’d gotten a look at John’s records, nothing remarkable. Unless…He’d said “people don’t know about or talk about”, which usually meant covert missions, black ops, special work. Not MI6, but…maybe Special Forces? Or something else similar? Government dirty-work in any case, and it paid rather well, by the looks of things. No wonder he managed Baker Street on an Army pension and a part-time job a clinic.

“And here I was worried about your income. Silly me.”

“You’re not a complete idiot, no matter what Sherlock says on his bad days, but you had no way of knowing unless I said something.”

“You don’t look like it, though.” He eyed up the friendly medic, “But I guess that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? And sure explains a couple of things about you. I mean, I’ve seen you work, John, it’s a thing to behold. Plain little John Watson beating mobsters into submission without breaking a sweat is kind of a sight to see.” He was thinking in particular of an incident a couple of days ago when John had reported to a scene without Sherlock, and proceeded to pretty much solve the whole thing by himself, before going on to take down the suspect, a burly Scottish gangster by the name of Benjamin “Brick” McDuggan who doubled John in weight-class and was nearly Sherlock’s height. John had taken him out like it was nothing, and pinned the bastard to the pavement until Greg’s constables could get there to take him into custody.

That was also the first time Greg learned that John was Scottish himself, when he’d heard John threatening McDuggan in perfectly fluent if not slightly shaky Gaelic. Watson, of course, it made sense. He didn’t realise he’d dozed off until John was shaking him again.

“Alright, old man. As comfortable as my couch is, you are not sleeping out here. Come on, you, up you go.”

“Old man!” Greg objected even as John got him up and steered him towards one of the bedrooms, “Who’s an old man!”

“Well, you’re fourteen years older than I’m supposed to be, so…yeah. Old man.” John huffed. That was a strange thing to say, and Greg fought to connect the pieces in a scrabbled, uncooperative brain. John was in his thirties…wasn’t he? Greg knew he was missing something, but the precise what was eluding him. He sat down on the bed and watched John as he heeled off his shoes and tossed them aside.

“I can hear you thinking, did you know that?”

“I thought that was Sherlock’s thing.”

“Hmm.” John came out of the en-suite and looked at him, “You didn’t mishear, Greg.”

“I take it you didn’t mean to say it out loud?”

“You’re not panicking, I suppose that’s a good thing.” John stood a respectful distance away, studying him. Greg wondered how the younger man could stand being around so many people all the time, if it ever bothered him, if he ever lost control. That got a smile, and John came over to sit next to him, but not too close just in case this new development had Greg leery of him touching.

“For the record, when you’ve been around as long as I have, it’s kind of a learned thing to keep things under control.”

“Do you know anything about the one who, uh, who created you?”

“Yeah. She…stayed with me for a long time. She stayed until I met my…partner? I guess that’s what you’d call him.” John looked a little uncomfortable.

“And when you left her?”

“She didn’t mind. She was a very good friend of ours, I still…talk to her sometimes. I’ll write or she’ll call. We’ve always been better at writing letters, though. Took her ages to get the hang of emails.” John chuckled, “Not that either of us were very quick studies of modern technologies. I can drive a Foxhound but not much else, unless it’s a Rover. Anything smaller, can’t manage. Took me months to get the hang of _that_ , but the Army had all the time in the world and I was driving jeeps at Normandy in no time at all.”

“Norman…fuck! You were _there_?!” Was John Watson really _that_ old? And if he was, how old had he been when World War II broke out? Probably in his thirties, he didn’t _look_ that old, or even that much younger. John smiled and nodded.

“Yeh, I was there. Bloody awful business, war, but it’s all I knew how to do for…couple of centuries at least.”

 “John?”

“Hmm?”

“How old are you? Really?” It was usually considered quite rude to ask a vampire how old they were, but he couldn’t help it. It explained so much, and Greg wondered how he had missed it. Granted he hadn’t known John very long at all, but…he fancied himself a pretty observant bloke. John was by no means the first vampire Greg had ever met, so…how had he missed the signs?

“To give you a frame of reference, I was twenty years old at the start of the Hundred Years’ War. By that time, I had already been in the army for ten years and didn’t plan on leaving anytime soon.”

“Oh, damn.” The Hundred Years’ War had started in 1337, but he didn’t get the feeling John had been killed and resurrected in his twenties. “Um, what…what killed you?”

“Lost my family to the plague. I was thirty-three.”

“Nearly lost yourself. You weren’t…married, were you?”

“I was.” And, oh how sad he looked.

“John. Christ, I’m so sorry.” Greg felt like he’d been punched in the chest. “I shouldn’t…shit, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s fine. I promise it’s fine.” John messed with the blankets, “My brothers were already dead by then, dead in the war, and it was just my parents and my sister left. I had three brothers.” A typically large family for the time, four strapping sons and a daughter they had hoped to marry someday to a better future.

“What happened, John?”

“I couldn’t save my parents or my wife. I tried, I tried everything, but I just…they wouldn’t let me. Mary, sweet girl, she told me not to. Said if it was her destiny to die, she wasn’t going to fight it.” The long-lived soldier shook his head and Greg saw a tremor run across his shoulders. Without thinking about it, he put a hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I’m so sorry, John, that must have been so heartbreaking.”

“There’s nothing worse than knowing you can do something but you…can’t. It makes me sick remembering how tiny her body was, how fragile. How absolutely trusting she was when I held her that last night.” He would be damned if the man’s voice didn’t break. “She was so…little. So much promise, all…just...gone. We named her Rosamund, you know? She was two, Greg. Didn’t even have a chance to _live_.” It was worse than he’d thought. It wasn’t just parents and siblings and a wife gone, it was a child. He could just picture her, tiny little thing, all of two and learning how to run on her own, the absolute light of her father’s life and the joy of his dreams, eyes like her father’s and hair that might have been so fair it was almost white. The heartbreak John had suffered when she died of the plague, forced to watch his loved ones die one after another, it hurt to think of it.

“What about your sister?”

“I saved her. I managed to save her. We don’t talk much anymore, we haven’t for a few years, but…she never resented me for saving her. She understood why I did it.”

“So, you don’t speak to your sister, but you still keep in touch with your sire.”

“Yeah.” John rubbed his wrist with one hand, eyes dim. The only child Greg had to do with wasn’t even his. Patricia’s child wasn’t his at all. They’d fought long and loudly about that, he had threatened to counter-sue for defamation of character and lying in a court of law if she kept up trying to collect child support from him for someone else’s child. He loved Noelle Holmes, though, she was an absolute joy to be with.

He was a little surprised when John suddenly dropped against his shoulder, the most heartbreaking sound getting caught in his throat. Greg stilled, very much aware of how close John was. Soft, uneven breaths chilled the skin of his neck and raised goosebumps. John didn’t move, he stayed quite still, but didn’t say anything. Greg waited for his body to slow down, the contact had kick-started a fight-or-flight reflex that hadn’t gone anywhere. He hadn’t even flinched, really. He knew, in some part of his brain, that John wouldn’t willingly hurt him, nothing would happen without full consent. It was quite sobering to realise that he had shared meals, work, and even, on rare occasion, a bed with one of the deadliest predators in the world. And John had never once moved on him or made it obvious that he might _not_ be fully human. Greg let out a slow, shaky breath and turned his head, looking over and down at the blond-grey against his shirt, reaching over to touch. He’d always wanted to, really, he had a fetish for hair. And John had very lovely colour. It wasn’t white or grey or blond or brown, it was a bit of everything. Kind of like his eyes. John made some kind of noise, but it wasn’t grief or distress, it was almost…soft. It was a soft kind of purring if he had to put a word to it. It was cute.

“You…are very calm.” John’s voice was soft. He couldn’t help a chuckle and carefully put an arm around John’s shoulders. The touch was not rejected, so John was willing to take comfort. Greg smiled and tightened his grip just a bit.

“Was wondering where those scars were from.”

“Oh, you knew exactly what they were the first time you _saw_ them, just didn’t say.” Greg rolled his eyes and felt John shaking. But he was laughing now.

“I am not the first of my kind you’ve been involved with.”

“But definitely one of the few I feel comfortable around. Probably because I didn’t even _know_ until today.” Greg shrugged. “Sneaky bastard. I knew there was something special about you, John Watson, just didn’t have a bleeding clue what.” After a while, John moved. But he didn’t leave. Greg let go of him and let him move around. He watched as John got up and removed his boots, following with his socks. His trousers, jumper, and button-down followed, leaving him in pants and a vest.

Greg had seen John like this before, and marvelled at how _tan_ he was! That was what baffled him the most, John’s tan. It was so even, and it was unusual for a Caucasian vampire to be so tan. John was an anomaly and so very, very handsome and…oh, damn, he was lost, wasn’t he? John beamed at him, baring a glimpse of white teeth and Greg couldn’t keep his eyes from widening. He unconsciously wet his lips, bottom lip first, and blinked.

“Oh, John! Can I see them?”

“Do you want to?” The clever medic just smiled benignly. It was as much of a risk to ask a vampire to show his fangs as it was to ask his age, but Greg seemed to be quite good at trampling the rules. He’d learned that from the Holmes brothers. John chuckled and stepped up the bedside, careful not to pose a threat to the human who had followed him to a safe, neutral location away from either residence they kept in London. Greg nodded and scooted back on the bed when John waved him back. With room to spare, John knelt on the bed in front of him and studied him.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He rubbed the collar of Greg’s shirt between his fingers, tugging on the material. Greg could only nod and fought out of his clothes, at least the top layers. John touched each new bit of skin with reverent, careful hands. Greg was used to being touched, in the course of a long case it was inevitable he would get hurt somehow and John would be there to patch him up and send him back to work. He knew John already knew where each of the bite-scars was located, and probably when they had been laid down. He didn’t have very many, but those he did have all had some history to them. John paid special attention to two of the scars.

“John?”

“This is a very faint scar, and not because of its age. Scars fade like this if the vamp who bit the victim was interrupted. This was an assault, you were attacked when you got this scar.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard, remembering that night very, _very_ clearly. He had been a young constable, still in Patrol, and he had heard the warnings over and over again from the supers and the sergeants: Don’t mess with the vampires. Leave them alone, and they’ll leave you alone. Nine times out of ten, they would leave you alone.

But one night, Greg had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and got caught unawares. He remembered the blank, wide-eyed stare of the first victim, the girl he’d been too late to save, her body broken and limp on the tarmac, the blank, fearful expression on her face. She had been glamoured and was completely under the vampire’s thrall, unable to fight back or free herself. But when Greg had come upon them, the vampire had been startled and for a split second his control had broken. The girl had come to her senses but it was too late. Her neck had been snapped and she was dead. Unable to react in time, Greg had gone down, powerless to fight off his much stronger assailant. He only remembered the excruciating pain and the vampire’s glee that he had gotten such a tasty victim, two in one night was a record. But it hadn’t lasted long, the vamp had been hauled off of Greg and a fight had ensued. There were three, he remembered, three vampires, two on one, and it had been a very short fight. The younger vampire had saved his life, not even stopping to consider the potential consequences of saving a wounded human’s life, but the elder had not stopped him. Greg rubbed the scar on his wrist, one of two reminders of that awful night and how fucking lucky he’d been. A week in hospital and he’d been back at work. Desk work for two months until he got his strength back, doctor’s orders, and back out to the streets. John squeezed his shoulder and he raised his head, making eye-contact. Without a word, John took his hand and turned it so the scar was obvious.

“That was a terrible night, wasn’t it?”

 “That girl’s face.”

“Don’t ever blame yourself for not being fast enough, Greg, you would have died that night if you’d been there any sooner. It was luck Naz-Afarin was there that night.” John traced the scar with his index finger, his expression unreadable. Greg remembered a dark-skinned face, eyes nearly the colour of the night sky, fathomless seas filled with stars, and a voice telling him to hang on, help was on its way and he would be safe in no time. Just hang on a bit longer. Her name, Greg had learned a month later, after some serious research, was Naz-Afarin Ezera. She was about the age of Greg’s grandmother but far better fit. For one, his grandmother was a few years in her grave and Ezera was still very much among the living souls of Earth. He had never really learned the name of Ezera’s young companion, it hadn’t been important in the grander scheme of things. Knowing that he owed his continued miserable mortality to a pair of vampires was scary enough, names weren’t a priority. But he recalled the younger vamp’s eyes, thinking that there weren’t many people in the world who had eyes like that. Blue in one light, grey in another, and brown in yet a third. And all three colours all at once, and still more on top of those. While Ezera’s eyes had been like deep night skies, the young vamp’s eyes had been like oceans or galaxies. Mesmerising and beautiful. And a voice, soft in his ear, telling him what to do.

“You hang on, now, Constable Lestrade. Hear me? You’ve got plenty of living left to do and I’ll be damned if you kick out early because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don’t you dare die on me, alright? You come back and keep living. I didn’t just save you so you can die anyway.” A rueful chuckle, “Rather bad manners, really, if you ask me. So. Don’t…don’t die on me. Maybe we’ll meet again, maybe not. Live your life, alright? Please?” And that had been the last time he heard from or saw the handsome young vamp. He’d thought of him, rather more often than was probably healthy, but Greg couldn’t help it. There was just something about the way he’d jumped into action, fighting off the rogue who had killed that girl and then turned on Greg to do the same to him, before turning around to save Greg’s life. The soft scrape of teeth against the scar-tissue startled him out of his head and he blinked in alarm. He wasn’t in danger, John was just trying to get his attention. Greg caught his breath and watched as John explored the scar, getting a feel for it. He swallowed a gasp, or some noise, when John’s teeth fit the marks left behind twenty-two years ago. He’d never gotten a name but had sworn he would never forget that face, those eyes. How could he?

“Oh, my god.”

“You never asked.”

“That was you, John! That was you that night!” Greg fell back against the pillows and covered his face, “Oh my god!” John chuckled, that familiar, warm sound Greg was so used to even after just a few months of association, and he felt the mattress sink as the younger man settled next to him.

“Y’know, vampires have very long memory. We can remember almost anyone and everyone who makes themselves part of our lives. And for me, it’s all about the scent. There will be two I never forget.”

“J-just two?”

“Yours, of course, how could I ever forget yours.” John held his wrist in one hand, covering the scar with his thumb, nuzzling under his jaw. Greg shivered but did not feel threatened. John would not hurt him like that. He sighed and leaned his head back to give John more access.

“Who else?”

“Sherlock. He has no idea, none.”

“When would you have _met_ him, though?”

“1881, 30 March. I like to consider it my birthday present for that year, he was so…unusual.” John smiled, “Looking at him, and not knowing any better, you’d have thought he was one of my kind just going by appearances. Funny how it always alarmed people when they realized it was me who was the vampire.”

“Living with Sherlock must be very…strange, then.” Greg frowned, “I mean, you’ve already lived with him, you’ve already been through a lifetime’s worth of misadventures with a Sherlock Holmes.”

“And I’ve missed him so much. There really is nothing worse than outliving your friends and loved ones.” There was that sadness again. “But I didn’t lose him to sickness or untimely death.”

“That must have been some bit of relief for you, after all the people you’d lost before.” Greg opened his eyes, “Old age?”

“Quite. He was well into his nineties by the time he died in his sleep. Baker Street had been long since left behind for a little place in Sussex, a place on the coast near Hastings. I kept the house, of course.”

“You still have the Sussex house?”

“I absolutely do. Holmes willed it to me, y’know. Made me promise I’d keep the place up and find some use for it on my own.” John leaned his head back and smiled up at Greg, “I spent years there after his death writing up all of our mad adventures. The people, the places, the cases solved and those we didn’t quite get to for whatever silly reason. Christ, Holmes was so _picky_ about cases, I’d kick him out of the house just to get some peace every now and then.”

“Like you do now?”

“Exactly like I do now.”

“You don’t own Baker Street, do you?”

“No, but I do know the Hudsons very, very well. As soon as she heard I was looking for a place to call home, Martha Hudson didn’t even give me a choice. She knew all the stories, she knew the secrets and experiments gone wrong, she’d read my writings. When she put it together that I was, in fact, the very same John H. Watson, MD, late of Her Majesty’s Royal Northumberland Fusiliers, she cried for an hour and kissed me. Made me swear I’d do right by the old place and find Sherlock Holmes. Said he was out in London somewhere, had to be. Just had to be.”

“I bet she was absolutely thrilled when you finally did get hold of Sherlock and get him to Baker Street.”

“It’s why we get away with so much there. She knows everything. The experiments have changed, of course, and at least one of the people has changed a lot, but it’s the same as it was back then.” A wistful smile spread across John’s face and he chuckled, “Victoria’s London was a rather special kind of place, it’s a little weird for me to walk the streets of _this_ London and remember when things were different.”

“When _were_ you here, then? You seem to have been almost everywhere it’s possible to travel in this world.” Greg poked at John’s forehead, watching him go cross-eyed with the gesture.

“In the 1880s and 1890s. I must have spent ten years or so with Holmes. Following him around, keeping him out of trouble, making sure he didn’t get arrested for something.”

“Like now?”

 “Just like now.” John sighed, turning his head to rest his cheek against his folded hands, “There’s no chance you’re a namesake, is there?”

“Why?”

“Oh, I just remember this bloke with The Yard, smart fellow he was, kind when he had to be and the patience of a saint with us over at Baker Street.” John wrinkled his nose, “One of my dearest friends, he was.”

“Oh? What about him?”

“I told you. I remember everyone who’s come into my life. Holmes and Lestrade were two of my dearest friends, they were my family for a very long time.” John sighed, moving so his head rested against Greg’s chest, listening to the sound of Greg’s heartbeat. It was a strange thing for John to do, an intimate move, but Greg didn’t really mind. A thought occurred to him, something he hadn’t really considered until just now.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“In the strictest sense of the word? I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my life, two of my friends brought back into my life at different times for the same reason is not a gift I take for granted.” John resettled his weight, “I thought it might have been you, but Lestrade is such an unusual name, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it might be.” Greg yawned, “Ugh.”

“Greg, love, your heart-rate is nearly to full resting, you need sleep.” John squeezed his wrist, “Please? Just a few hours, that’s all I ask.” Greg sighed, cursing his inability to refuse John anything when he asked like that.

“What about you?”

“I need rest, too. It’s been a while since I slept properly.”

“Not much to be had at Baker Street, is there?”

“Never has been, really. But who am I to complain?” John smiled and after some adjusting, got the covers situated. Greg knew what happened when John fell asleep and wondered that he felt safe enough to let his guard down so completely with Greg.

“Do you _want_ to know why I sleep better when you’re around?”

“I have a theory.”

“When things got too strung-out at Baker Street and I couldn’t handle Holmes anymore, Lestrade would come for me and take me to one of the safe-houses. He’d see I ate properly, then he’d lock up all the doors and shade all the windows and I’d sleep for days. He always sat watch, always had a gun and a silver blade. Sometimes Holmes would visit, sometimes he got calls from The Yard, but he never left me alone.”

“So he knew, then? He knew what you were?”

“He knew what I was, never condemned me, only warned me to be smart about my hunting. It was bad when The Ripper was stirring things up, people thought it was me.”

“Was it?”

“No, but it was one of my kind. He was handled…discretely.” John shuddered and Greg knew that he had been called upon to do something difficult. And yet, he’d done it. For no recognition at all, Jack The Ripper was London legend and myth and no one knew who he had been or if it was in fact just one person, or what had ever happened to him after the killings just…stopped. Greg smiled.

“What?” John was reading him again, and he huffed.

“Stop that, it’s bad enough when Sherlock does it. But you’re a legit bloody mind-reader, stop it.”

“Sorry, it’s not like I mean to, and I can’t exactly turn it off, y’know?” John rolled his eyes. Greg sighed.

“Sorry. It’s just…when did you eat last?”

“I hunted at the beginning of the week, but I could do with a top-up.”

“Will you hunt, then?”

“Nah. I keep the fridge here stocked. I was here last week for a couple of nights, and they haven’t let it since the last time I was here back in October of last year, so the stash is intact.”

“Ew.”

“Safer than the risk of hurting someone.” John shrugged and rolled from the bed, patting him on the chest, “And don’t you even think about it.”

“Who said I was thinking anything of the sort?”

“You’re a very sorry liar, Gregory Lestrade. I’m not going to ask you for that, it’s not right of me.”

“What if I offered?” He watched John move around, wondering if he was mad making that kind of offer. He had done his research, of course, and knew that to maintain a healthy lifestyle, modern vampires had to get a full feeding once every four months. They could get away with “sip” feedings the rest of the time, but going too long without a proper feeding was always a bad idea.

“Greg.”

“John, I’m not an idiot. I know what he did. He fed you. That means he trusted you not to kill him and you trusted _him_ enough to take that from him.” Another yawn had Greg closing his eyes, “Not just anyone would offer themselves as a vampire's sip-feeder. I can’t imagine Holmes wasn’t insanely jealous.”

“He had nothing to complain about. I kept my partner safe and I kept my inspector happy.” John’s eyes darkened. “But the question you’re not asking? I hunted twice in the last week, I don’t need to feed again for another four months.” Greg didn’t miss how John had said “my inspector” regarding his brave predecessor. That was an interesting choice of words.

“Sleep first, and we’ll talk about this later.” John came back to the bedside and sat down. Greg reached out and caught him by the hand. There it was, that very faint, just-palpable pulse. John had indeed fed recently if Greg could feel the faint residual pulse as his body processed the lately-consumed blood. For as many times as he had guarded John Watson’s sleep in a very different lifetime, John had repaid in kind by guarding Lestrade at various turns, whether in a few hours of hard-earned sleep or in the field in the course of an investigation. Greg was aware of John settling down next to him.

“If you want me to stay, Greg, I’ll stay.” John’s voice was calm and soft, promising nothing beyond a few hours of guarded sleep. He was too tired to say it out loud, but he knew John would stay. With a mutual understanding and a shared trust firmly in place, Greg fell asleep with John beside him. He would wake up first, he suspected, if it had really been that long since John had last slept well. That was…fine. It was more than fine.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! This whole chapter got missed! I don't know how, I am so sorry! Here, here's the fill-in between John and Greg arriving at the Mayfair penthouse and what happens in the mislabeled Chapter 6 (The Past of The Future Possible). Time to change a few things! Sorry, people! My bad!


	7. The Past of the Future Possible Pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for safety.  
> ::  
> John Watson's been around a while, he's been places and seen things. But there seems to be one reliable constant in his world. That constant is a familiar figure to him, an old friend in a new body. Well, it turns out to be TWO old friends. Where there is John Watson, there will be Sherlock Holmes and with him will come Greg Lestrade.  
> ::  
> This signifier/placeholder: ...***... marks where the naughty bits begin and end. Please read accordingly. If hot and steamy smut between to fully consenting adults is your cup of tea, then read to your heart's content. If sexual acts of any graphic description make you squick, feel free to skip. That is all. Please and thank you.  
> ::  
> This is from Greg's POV again.

* * *

It was in fact nearly six hours before Greg woke up again. He felt well-rested and content. It took a minute for his brain to catch up, and he groaned. Nothing had happened, absolutely nothing. Beside him, undisturbed by external stimuli, John slept so deeply if someone unfamiliar with his biology had come upon him, they would have thought him dead. He always looked so calm in sleep, he always had, and it was as if the centuries of living that lay behind him held no weight over him. John had died and been resurrected fairly young and in his sleep, he looked much younger than he ever would be again. To recover what strength he needed to live a normal daily life, John slept on his side, one hand tucked under his head and the other resting on the sheets. Greg had fallen asleep with one hand on John’s wrist, and he watched the slumbering vampire. He didn’t get to do this very often, but he always enjoyed doing it.

Some diaries had been recovered from a family property in Orleans wherein the first Gregory Lestrade had written pages worth of reflections. One of his favourite things, he’d admitted with some slight guilt, was watching John Watson sleep. Those long days spent guarding the vampire in safe-houses all over London and out in the countryside, those were not wasted hours to him. Those were moments of peace, welcome isolation to protect someone who gave so much so selflessly and asked for very little in return. Theirs was an arrangement to be envied, in truth, because it was a relationship built on foundations of honesty and trust. Sherlock Holmes had been, and likely always would be, an unstable third element in a relationship that would never sour. Between them, they had managed the unruly detective and kept him from darker urges and destructive behaviours.

Lestrade had known almost from the first meeting that John Watson was a vampire, and it had taken months for him to stop flinching every time they were in the same room together. John had taken it upon himself to put him at ease in very unusual ways. Low-scale glamouring at first, just…something to keep him calm. Touching had followed, neutral, friendly gestures not uncommon between two gentlemen. Touching shoulders, a brush of hands, inspecting small hurts taken in the course of a chase. Moving to more obvious gestures such as giving Lestrade a hand up from a crime-scene kneel, escorting him home from a scene or The Yard, or to and from any of those places, feeding him bits of intel from Holmes, helping on difficult cases when his fussy flat-mate couldn’t possibly be bothered to come out of hiding. It had always amused Lestrade, and Greg as he read these entries, that it was the vampire who had a more active social life than the mortal. But it didn’t matter, not once John turned his full affections to the devoted inspector. As their relationship changed, so did the entries, and Greg had more than once double-checked his surroundings to make sure he wasn’t being watched as he read the more explicit entries. It didn’t surprise him at all that someone like John Watson would be a careful and passionate lover, and he sort of envied Lestrade for getting to experience the full measure of the joy of it.

Back then, back in Victoria’s London, explicit relations between men were frowned upon and dangerous for both parties if they should be discovered, but somehow, they had never been found out and had enjoyed many private, quiet hours together. These days, that kind of relationship didn’t turn as many heads. It still got sneering looks and judgmental commentary, but it wasn’t forbidden as it had been.

 

What broke Greg’s heart the most was how unfailingly faithful and loyal John was to his loved ones. He had buried family centuries ago during the middle of the 14th century, from war and sickness alike, suffered unbelievable heartbreak in the process, and gone on to live his life as he could. Then, in the 19th century, he had found those he wished to make his family and had gone about doing so. He had seen out the mortal lifespans of two of his most dearly-beloved friends, caring for each as old age took their awareness and independence. But it seemed that both had, in some way or another, continued to find the means to sing the unassuming soldier’s praises. John had volumes of writings from Holmes, Greg had tripped over them one day at Baker Street looking for something else and quietly borrowed a couple of them, and he had his own diaries to tell him just how much two mortal men had come to be such good friends with one of the most amazing people either of them had ever known and how much he meant to them both. Holmes had died in his sleep in Sussex many, many years after they had left the rigours of London behind them, but Lestrade…a sickness had taken his strength and wasted him to a frail shell of his former self. John had, at his explicit request, taken away his suffering and his pain. Death had been peaceful and painless for Lestrade, in the end. To record, the only other vampire John Watson had ever created was his sister, Harriet. Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade had greeted death with him at their bedsides, having never thought or wanted to ask him to do that for them. And he had offered, many many times. But he always respected the wishes of his loved ones if they turned down his offer, he always had. After his wife Mary had died in 1350, he had never remarried. He had entertained friendships but had never again declared an interest to wed again.

-&-

Greg was pulled from his thoughts by a hollow sound. It took him a minute to register that someone was knocking at the door. Grumbling, he fished for his clothes and made it to the door to see who had come to bother them. If it was Sherlock, he’d send the idiot on his way with a few words to leave them alone. It _was_ Sherlock, who got one good look at Greg and seemed to know.

“He’s asleep, then?”

“And I am _not_ about to wake him up just because you think you need him.” Greg blocked the doorway with his body, not about to let the clever detective into the penthouse. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

“I came to give him something. Mycroft had papers for him to sign, I offered to deliver them.” Sherlock held out a manila folder, Greg took it from him. He didn’t open it, whatever was inside was none of his business.

“I’ll see he gets them. Is it urgent?”

“Not terribly.” Sherlock ruffled his hair, looking a bit sad, “Those are surrender papers.”

“Surrender papers? For what?” Greg frowned, finally opening the file.

“For guardianship of Noelle Aimé Holmes.”

“Oh my god. Sherlock.”

“It’s unfeasible for her to live at Baker Street anymore. And if someone comes after me, and finds her…”

“Oh, god. I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Greg put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, knowing how hard this was for him. Not that Noelle spent much time at Baker Street, but it was the principle. “Where is she going to live?”

“Mycroft is going to take her. She spends most of her time with him, anyway, and they’re very fond of each other. And she gets along with his wife and children very well.”

“Oh. That’s right.” Greg closed the file and leaned against the door-frame. Mycroft had married, several years ago, to a Russian diplomat’s daughter, a lovely woman by the name of Angelika Yuriev. Greg had met her a couple of times and thought she was quite delightful company, and perfect for Mycroft. Angelika lived with their two children, residence split between an estate in Yorkshire and a large house in London when she wasn’t travelling the world on business. She ran a very lucrative firm that dealt in financing start-ups in the tech and medical fields. It was doing quite well, and he knew Mycroft was quite proud of Angelika’s success. He had never wanted a domestic, stay-at-home wife, it had never been part of his plan. Marrying Angelika had been a well thought-out political move that had built a loving partnership between two consenting, very busy adults. Their oldest child was five now. Noelle was six, which was perfect. She had lived with Mycroft’s family off and on since she had come to be with the Holmeses, so as much as this hurt Sherlock, she wasn’t going to live with strangers.

“I guess Angelika didn’t give anyone else a say in this, did she?”

 “Nope. Never really does. Bless that woman.” Sherlock sighed, “Well, look after him for me, will you?”

“Yeah, no problem.” Greg shrugged, stepping out to hug the tall boffin, “Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Take a couple of days to get your head back on right. This hurts.”

“I am not a bad parent, Lestrade.” He sounded so...broken as he said those words.

“Point me in the direction of whoever said that and I’ll put ‘em to rights, Sherlock. You’re a good father, as far as you can be in your circumstances.” He hated what people said about Sherlock when they thought he wasn’t listening; it was disgusting that anyone thought it was acceptable to talk about another person so rudely. But humans weren’t quite known for being a tactful bunch.

“Come inside, Sherlock. I’ll see you on your way. Give me a mo.” He set the file on the desk in the study and fetched his shoes and a key to the penthouse. John did not stir as he sat on the bed to tie on his shoes.

“I wonder how many people have mistaken him as dead, sleeping like that?” Sherlock watched from the doorway. Greg looked up at Sherlock, then over his shoulder at the slumbering vamp, and smiled.

“Probably more than a couple. But you and me, we know better.” Greg did something a little silly and leaned over to kiss John on the temple, running his hand through the soft strands of hair.

“They were lucky bastards.” Sherlock murmured as they left the penthouse. Greg nodded, knowing Sherlock had seen those diaries and read the stories John must have published under an alias.

“He missed you, y’know. You really were his best friend. You be good to John Watson and he’ll take care of you.”

“For someone with so little, he gives so much.”

“Always has, I think.” Greg followed Sherlock to the street and waved down a taxi, “Stay out of trouble, Sherlock, will you?”

“Of course I will. I’ll be in touch. Stay with John, he’ll keep you right.”

“God bless him.” Greg shook his head, “Lucky us, Sherlock Holmes. Lucky us.”

“Lucky _you_ , I think.” Sherlock just smiled and ducked into the cab, giving the Baker Street address even as he fired off a text to Mycroft to let him know the papers had been delivered. As soon as the cab was underway, Greg retreated to the penthouse and waited for John to wake up.

-&-

Twenty-four hours later, Greg was reading one of several books John kept at the penthouse when he heard the door of the study open. John came out with the file in hand and put it on the side-table as he fired off a text with one hand. Ten minutes later, there was a brisk knock at the door and he watched from his perch on the couch as John handed the file off to A, who looked him over and raised an eyebrow. She didn’t say anything, but it was clear what she was thinking. John rolled his eyes and pushed her out of the flat.

“Get gone with you, Athelisa. Shoo. I don’t need you hounding me.”

“Someone’s got to, you’re not about to take proper care of yourself.”

“I hunted twice this week, thank you much. Now get on.” He scolded, closing the door on her, “Bloody nosy prat she is.”

“You know her from somewhere, then?” Greg had never learned the woman’s real name, she changed it every few months. He had always called her Anthea, as that had been the name she’d gone by the first time he met her. And just because he now _knew_ her real name, he wasn’t about to risk his neck by using it around her. She’d probably make him rather sorry for it.

“One of mine. I didn’t make her, but I know the vamp who did. Good bloke, too.” John smirked, leaning over the arm of the couch Greg had curled up against, his smile baring a flash of white. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Greg couldn’t keep a giddy smile off his face, “You took that rather well.”

“I knew it was coming. And she really is happier. All the room in the world to play, acres of land to explore in Yorkshire, and every luxury she could want is hers for having. She’s having the kind of childhood every child dreams of.” John tilted his head.

 “You know, you look an awful lot like him, did you know that?”

“I’ve been told, yes.” But never by the person who mattered the most. John snorted and tugged on his hair.

“I just did, you git! None of that cheek now, hear me?”

“Or what?”

“Boy, you are a pushy bastard, aren’t you? Lestrade had a _bit_ more tact, but that’s expected. Proper middle-class gent working his way up in life. Always did like a man of principle.”

“I know.” Greg chuckled, “So what about it, then?”

“Do you trust me, Greg?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Greg really did trust John, with everything. He just had to take that last little step off the edge and into the unknown. He knew what to expect, how the mechanics worked. But it had never been this important. John smiled and leaned over further until they were just that close. Greg was aware of a thud as the book slipped from his hands as John made contact. It was careful and soft and lovely and Christ he wanted more. Greg was very aware of the noise he was making and just couldn’t be arsed to care. The kiss had taken him by surprise, only because he hadn’t ever thought he’d be lucky enough. John chuckled and let him go just enough to let him catch his breath again.

“Oh my god.”

“Come on, up.” John tugged on his shirt and backed away, heading for the master bedroom. Greg kicked to his feet and took off after him, kicking the door shut once he was in. It was a good thing he did because he was backed into it a minute later. John just held him, didn’t push or make demands, but his eyes were nearly black. That was him, that was Greg, he’d done that.

He remembered his predecessor mentioning something about John waking up in a very affectionate, very horny mood after he’d slept off his recovery. That was how their more intimate relationship had started, after John had slept for approximately thirty hours after a long, gruelling series of interconnected cases that had baffled The Yard and even Holmes. That, apparently, had been as hard to do back then as it was today. It had been a serial killer, but worse than that it had been a vampire. Greg recalled how Lestrade had written about the way the other members of The Yard had treated John when it came to light that it was one of his kind behind the killings, and how Lestrade had stood up for him and protected him from false prosecution when someone had named John as the suspect. It hadn’t been him, in the end, and after John’s name was cleared, the accuser had come forward and admitted that they really hadn’t gotten a good look at the killer’s face and that his hair was the wrong colour anyway. So why John? Because it was a vampire, what else did he need to know? Falsely accusing a police informant didn’t usually go over that well, and John was well-liked enough by Lestrade’s supervisors that witch-hunts had been stifled before they got off the ground.

“John…”

“I know. It’s okay, Greg. I’ll take care of you.” John smiled and leaned up, nuzzling under Greg’s chin. “Christ, you smell amazing.” The sound Greg made was strangled, but he leaned against the door, keeping his muscles loose. John chuckled, and tracked the throbbing pulse in Greg’s neck to his collar, where he finally, _finally_ put his teeth against flesh and worried. He did not break the skin, but Greg couldn’t stifle a selfish moan as he felt the soft suction.

“John…please.”

“Bed. Now.” John’s voice was hoarse and low, Greg didn’t fight him as he steered him towards the bed. John took control and pushed him down on the mattress after making short, efficient work of the tee-shirt Greg wore, setting to work on his denims next, which were slid off with his pants and tossed off the foot of the bed. He settled with a grunt as John settled back on his knees, smiling.

“Oh, a fine sight you are, Inspector. Damn fine sight.” John chuckled and leaned down, but didn’t kiss him. Greg made an annoyed sound and reached for the young doctor.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry. I won’t leave you hanging.” John promised, laying a trail from his temple down to his shoulder, leaving faint marks along the way, and special attention to the scar left by his assailant twenty-two years ago. He felt a cool hand against his rib-cage, measuring his thundering heart-rate.

“John, please!”

“Easy goes, Inspector.” John murmured, finally kissing him properly. It was sweet, slow, and deep. Greg tasted curry, nicotine, and something coppery. Blood. It didn’t bother him, though, it made him giddy. The first graze of teeth was very alien and he jolted. John just held him still and kept his head down, whispering in some foreign tongue until he calmed down. It took Greg a minute to realize that he was also talking to himself, muttering in French. He did that when he was nervous. He hadn’t done this in years, but he wasn’t actually afraid. John rubbed the line of his shoulder and down his flank, repeating the gesture until Greg was relaxed.

“I will never hurt you, Greg. I can make this good for you, too.” He murmured, kissing behind Greg’s ear. Needing something to hang on to, he ran shaky fingers through John’s hair and tightened his grip just enough to hold the doctor in place as he found his way to Greg's carotid. A soft chuckle chilled his skin and he felt something hot coil in his gut. He whined as he felt that soft, familiar suction. John kissed the faint mark he’d left, and Greg angled his head to give him better access.

“That’s more like it.” John murmured, content with the physical and emotional state of his partner. Greg closed his eyes and waited. He didn’t have to wait long, John went back to what he’d been doing. When he was content with the first mark, he pushed up on his elbows to examine his handiwork.

“Oh, that’s lovely, that is.” Greg opened his eyes and studied the content vampire above him. The mark rested over the assault-scar. That was significant. Most of the time he’d done this, his throat was off-limits. But John Watson could do whatever the fuck he wanted and Greg would let him.

“Will you let me?” John tilted his head, eyes dark but not black, “Truly?” Greg just nodded. John smiled and kissed him before bending his head to the mark. Greg was coherent, completely sober, and a fully-consenting party. He cradled the back of John’s head and reminded himself to stay relaxed. Well, most of him was relaxed, in any case. The next time John’s teeth touched him, it was sharp and beautiful. A soft scrape at first, a testing graze, and then a sharp, sudden pain that lasted only a moment before endorphins rushed through his bloodstream and dulled everything to a delicious haze. And yet, he was so clear-headed. Someone moaned, a wanton, selfish sound, and the soft, careful pull was dizzying.

“Stay with me, Greg. Stay with me.” John whispered, his breath hot against Greg’s cheek, before going back to what he’d been doing. Greg stayed alert, unable to go under completely because of the state of his body. He was so hard he couldn’t imagine hitting his subspace very easily or very quickly. Greg hadn’t been this hard since he’d been a teenager experimenting with friends at weekend soirees.

John pulled back finally, licking a couple of stray drops that escaped and kissed the new scar that would heal in twenty-four hours. Greg was so relaxed he could have been tied up and wouldn’t have put up a fight at all. John disappeared for a moment, he thought he heard the taps run in the en-suite, and came back tasting clean but not of toothpaste or mouthwash. He still tasted a bit of copper, but that was _him_ , and it was heady. Greg knew John was giving him time to recover before moving forward with any further activity, and that said more about his character, more about his priorities, than anything else. It explained so much about how he’d become such a considerate lover, why he had the kind of reputation he did.

...***...

John took his place back after a few minutes, kneeling over Greg with those bright, galaxy eyes and a content smile. Greg was about to ask what had him taking his sweet time, but choked as John, without warning, shimmied down until he was between Greg’s knees and swallowed his very healthy, very eager erection, taking him to the root in a single careful thrust. John, he realized as a warm mouth enveloped his cock, had no gag-reflex. Greg gasped and tried to keep still. He couldn’t keep from bucking and stifled an indecent moan as John chuckled around him, putting a hand on his hip to hold him still.

“Take it easy, cowboy.” He murmured before going down again, “Take it easy.” Greg choked and silently begged for mercy. This had to be it, this right here was how John had gotten his nickname Three Continents Watson. It just had to be. But it wasn’t John’s goal to finish him off like this. John, the clever bastard, was efficient and multi-tasked. A couple of choked grunts informed Greg that he was up to something and he reached for the clever medic, meeting his fingers in a familiar place. Clever boy. Finally taking pity on Greg, who was about to fly apart at the barest breath, John pulled off with a crude slurp and worked his way back up for a proper kiss.

Having gotten some of his wits back, Greg grabbed John by the shoulders and used his measly strength to flip them over so he was on top of the slightly startled vampire. The breath rushed out of John’s lungs in a startled, muffled “oof” that Greg caught in the kiss that hadn’t ever broken when they changed position. Pulling away from that kiss, he fumbled for the lube and flicked the cap open, applying a generous amount to his fingers. John’s eyes rolled back when Greg pushed forward with one lubed finger, exploring something he was familiar with on a new partner. He knew exactly where John’s confidence came from, thank you _very_ much, and oh was it gorgeous. Not too long, but thicker than most. Beautiful, just…beautiful. And quite lively, Greg noticed. He chuckled and as he gave a twist of his fingers, he wet his lips as he nuzzled at the junction of hip and groin. He had plans later, nefarious plans to carry out on his dear, unassuming vampire lover. Christ, Gregory Lestrade had been a fortunate bastard in the 19th century, and that luck had smiled on lowly, lonely Gregory Etienne Lucas Lestrade two centuries later. About fucking time something went right for him, and what a fine specimen as John Watson to be that thing. No complaints from his corner, no sir.

 

It didn’t take much to get John worked to the hairy edge, and oh the look he got for denying him that pleasure was so very worth it. John actually growled at him, fangs bared and all, and all he did was giggle. He couldn’t help it, watching John come undone under him was beautiful. But finally, he took mercy on the poor man and pulled back. John held something in one hand, a question in those eyes. Greg smiled and took the small foil packet, tearing the corner with his teeth. He dropped the rolled bit of latex into John’s outstretched hand, despite knowing damn well they were both clean as a whistle, and watched it disappear between his teeth as he rolled them again. He shimmied down until he was tucked between Greg’s spread thighs and hummed as he used just the right combination of blunt teeth and tongue to roll the condom over Greg’s twitchy, aching cock. Jesus, John Watson was going to be the death of him. Again. Fucking hell. But what a way to go.

“No, no, no. None of that.” John came up and framed his head and shoulders with his arms, “I have plans that very much require you alive.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. Definitely.” John smirked and kissed Greg again. This was a problem, all he wanted to do was stay in bed with John for a long time. Whatever he had had with John Watson in another lifetime, he wanted that right now. But what he _really_ wanted right now was having John under him, willing and ready. He rolled so he was on top and looked down at John.

“Alright?”

“You’re not going to break me, Inspector. Hard even to hurt me.” John squirmed under him, planting his feet flat against the mattress.

“That’s more like it.” He smirked and settled between John’s open thighs, a snug, comfortable fit. He nudged forward, groaning as he pushed against the loose ring of muscle. Christ, it had been too long. Far, _far_ too long. He wanted to take it slow, he really did, and settled for a slow, steady slide home. With two hunts and a sip under his belt, John was quite warm to the touch. Once he had bottomed out, Greg rested, giving his body a chance to adjust. It was quite different with a man. Greg hadn’t slept with a man since his early days on the force, he had settled once he had married. Patricia had not shared his sense of monogamy, but that was her prerogative. Now that he was no longer married, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. And right now? He wanted to fuck John Watson. Long, hard, and several times if possible. Pulling out all the way, he flashed John a cheeky grin before sliding home in one quick, brutal thrust that shoved the breath out of his lungs. They picked a rhythm that worked for both of them and he managed to hold out long enough to make John come first. He was quick to follow, a few stuttered thrusts later and he collapsed on John’s chest.

...***...

After recovering, which took a few minutes, he pulled out, hissing at the sensation, and removed, tied off, and binned the spent condom. Greg returned from the en-suite after washing his hands and brushing his teeth and wiping down with a flannel, and sent John off to do his business. He was dozing off, sore and content, when John returned. Greg reached out and tugged until he was practically on top of the young vampire who had stolen his heart once and was poised to do it all over again. And Greg? He would let him, if John asked, he’d let him. Trust and honesty had been the foundations of that first relationship.

Greg did to John what John had done to him earlier and laid his head against John’s chest. He didn’t hear a true heartbeat, but there was something there, something soft and rhythmic.

“Not a true heartbeat.” He murmured, keeping his eyes closed.

“Mhm.” John’s hand was in his hair, just a light scratch of fingernails against his scalp, those nimble fingers carding through his hair like he was stroking a cat or a dog. Greg wasn’t sure if the noise he made was audible, but he was very content for the moment. John chuckled and stroked the back of his neck.

“Christ, I missed you.”

“Hm.” Greg smiled and hooked a leg over John’s, pressing close. He fell asleep like that, curled around John.

* * *

 


	8. A Night On The Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little more intimate between John and Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for safety.  
> ::  
> John Watson's been around a while, he's been places and seen things. But there seems to be one reliable constant in his world. That constant is a familiar figure to him, an old friend in a new body. Well, it turns out to be TWO old friends. Where there is John Watson, there will be Sherlock Holmes and with him will come Greg Lestrade.  
> ::  
> This signifier/placeholder: ...***... marks where the naughty bits begin and end. Please read accordingly. If hot and steamy smut between to fully consenting adults is your cup of tea, then read to your heart's content. If sexual acts of any graphic description make you squick, feel free to skip. That is all. Please and thank you.

* * *

Two hours later, they took showers and John took him out for dinner. It was some exotic place Greg had never heard the name of before and left him feeling very much like he’d stepped into a completely different world. The staff obviously knew John, they all addressed him familiarly. As they waited with a small crowd of businessmen, a mid-height gentleman in a nice two-piece black suit with very Middle Eastern features appeared from pretty much nowhere and approached them.

“Davod Arestani. GM and owner of this place.” John murmured a split second before the man reached them and hugged John hard enough to lift the soldier off his feet.

“Watson, Watson, you’re here! Oh, I am _so_ happy to see you, my dear friend!” The man slapped John on the shoulder with enough force to buckle his knees, but John just kind of staggered a little.

“Davod, old friend, it’s great to see you again!” John was just as enthusiastic and Greg was dying to know how they knew each other. Davod caught sight of Greg and his expression changed very quickly. His smile smoothed into something that might have bothered Greg on any other night and he chuckled, a soft, rich sound that settled warmly in Greg’s core.

“Oh, John Watson. You found him, didn’t you? All over again, you lucky fiend.”

“I found him, Davod. I certainly did.” John’s smile softened and Greg realized what it was about Davod that confused him. He was a vampire! Had probably known John for centuries, at the very least a couple of decades. That explained why he was so familiar with John and treated him like a very old friend, or even family. Greg barely had time to brace himself before Davod was hugging _him_. Davod had known John for long enough he had known John back in the 1880s when he’d lived here with another Sherlock Holmes, probably remembered John outliving both Greg _and_ Sherlock, and how sad that would have made him.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you, Inspector Lestrade. So very, _very_ glad.” Davod hugged him like a long-lost son, careful not to unintentionally hurt him, and looked Greg over with a sharp eye, probably comparing what he saw to what he remembered and approving of it, “Please, please be welcome in my house. Whatever I can do for you, name it. Anything.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“This way, come with me!” With that, they were dragged through a crowded restaurant past tables full of chatting, happy diners.

“John?”

“Just…do whatever he says. It’s fine, Greg.” John took his hand and they followed the cheerful Iranian to a secluded, curtained space with room for ten more people at least.

“Here, this is for you tonight.” Davod gestured at the semi-private dining-space, “Be comfortable. I hope you came hungry?”

“Shy of famished, Davod.” John just smiled innocently and Davod shook his head, clicking his tongue in dismay. He patted John’s cheek and looked him over.

“You look healthy. Fed well and recently. Good.”

“Is Naz around tonight?” John settled in a corner of the deep booth after handing off his coat and mobile to the pretty young hostess who had followed them from the front. Greg surrendered his coat and mobile as well, he was off the clock and anyone who needed him could damn well wait until he wanted to check his messages. He had the feeling his time off came with a caveat to leave him the fuck alone until further notice. He suspected he had a few days to himself, and that was absolutely just fine with him.

“She is indeed. You know she knows you’re here.”

“Of course she knows.” John smiled, “Send her out when she has a minute.”

“Absolutely, she’ll be thrilled to see you again! Can I bring you anything?” Davod just beamed at them and John ordered drinks and a couple of appetizers. Davod and the hostess disappeared quietly and Greg got comfortable.

“Jesus, John!”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“Christ, how long have you known _him_?”

“I’ve known Davod about half my lifetime.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.” John smiled and sprawled across part of the padded, well-cushioned bench. It was the kind of set-up you read about in old stories or saw in post-cards from exotic places normal people didn’t have the means to visit for themselves. They were tucked into a curtained booth at the back of the restaurant, perfect for people-watching or other things, left pretty much to their own devices, and Greg was fine with that.

 

Davod came back after a few minutes with their drinks and appetizers and asked if they were ready to order or not. John looked to Greg, who was really the only one of the two of them who _had_ to eat. Yeah, he was pretty damn hungry. Having spent the past couple of weeks bouncing between work obligations and setting things straight with Patricia and her barrister, he hadn’t had much time to eat or sleep.

“That just will not do, Inspector.” Davod had read that from him and shook his head sadly, “No worries, we’ll get you set right.” With that, and a parting pat to the cheek, Davod was gone again.

“Christ, I feel like I’m at Angelo’s or something.”

“You will not go hungry here.” John just smiled as he sipped his drink, something slightly bitter and savoury. Greg snorted. Not likely.

“Rosemary?” He asked after taking a sip of whatever John had ordered. He swore he tasted rosemary. Vodka, a very good one, rosemary, and some blend of fruit juices.

“It’s called a Marrakech. All I ever get when I come here. Very good, yeah?”

“It’s different. I like it.” Greg smiled and picked at the appetizers. They were only disturbed when a very stern-looking woman with dark skin appeared between a couple of servers. Greg recognised her right away and looked at John, who just smiled.

“Ezera?”

“Mhm. She and Davod have been married since 1870.”

“Wow. She doesn’t look at _all_ different!”

“She shouldn’t. And don’t worry, she remembers you.” John stayed put as his gorgeous sire finally reached their table and stood at the end, hands on hips, eyes narrow.

“Well, there you are! The two of you trouble-makers better keep out of it, hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” It was reflex, respect.

“And  _you_ , Lestrade! About time you got yourself together properly!” She turned on Greg next, “You let that one look after you and he’ll never steer you wrong.”

“Y’know, I’m probably safer with him on my six than anyone else.” Greg flashed Ezera a cheeky smile, “Not him I’m worried about, ma’am.”

“Hmph. Mouthy one, ain’t he?”

“You should see the other one, sire.” John rolled his eyes, “Oh, the mouth on _that_ one! Burn the ears of a priest, he would!”

“Are you talking about Sherlock?” Greg just had to ask. John nodded.

“Yep.”

“Oh, god, no! Oh, it’s worse than that! Completely disrespectful clot, no manners at all, and _never_ _mind_ social awareness!” Greg glared into his glass, “It’s like dealing with a bleeding toddler! I’ll go mad first!”

“That, dear, is why I’m around,” John said calmly, just grinning at him. Ezera rolled her eyes and before Greg could do more than swallow his drink, what was left of it, she was on him. All she did was hold him still and keep his focus.

“Clear your head, Lestrade. Those are not your worries tonight. Tonight, your impudent friend is with his family and perfectly safe. Think of something else.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He swallowed a sigh of something and let Ezera push him back against the bench, “Sorry, ma’am. But he’s just so…ugh!”

“Gregory Lestrade, what did I say?”

“Many apologies, sire.”

“Your heart is in turmoil, as is your head. Too much work, too much stress, not enough relief.”

“You can read that?” Of course they could. It was probably written on him clear as day.

“That vile woman broke your heart, we should be so fortunate she did not break your spirit or your faith. Think as little of her as she thought of you, my dear Inspector.” Ezera leaned in and Greg closed his eyes. He was John’s…what was the word? There was a word for it, there was, and it escaped him. But he belonged, more or less, to the calm, content young vampire sitting across from him, and through John he was also Ezera and Davod’s. So when Ezera kissed him, he let her. He would always let her.

“Better.” Ezera chuckled as she pulled away, “You beautiful thing. Such a pure soul. We should be so fortunate.”

“Sire.” Greg leaned his head back and studied John Watson’s gorgeous sire, blessing her for making that choice six hundred and sixty years ago to save a young soldier’s life. Naz-Afarin Ezera possessed a radiant power, control over herself and all she desired, taking with consent. Greg was one of them, just for now. She knew, and he knew, that Greg belonged to John Watson and no one else. But she could take if she wished. Ezera kissed him again, and he whined when he felt a sharp, brief pain on his lip. It would heal quickly, of course, it was shallow and small, but a scar would be left there. A small mark, a small claim. She smiled and hugged him.

“Do not make yourself a stranger to us, Lestrade. We are nearly family.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled and leaned against her, “Thank you for…everything.”

“You are welcome for everything. And to everything. Enjoy your night.” She kissed Greg again, kissed John, and was gone again, leaving them to their own devices. A pair of servers delivered food to them and Davod came to see how they were. One look at Greg and he knew. Chuckling, he pulled the curtains to give them a bit of privacy and promised to be back later. Greg sat next to John and spent a few hours eating, drinking, relaxing, and simply existing. Touching and kissing was the order of the day, sharing food was a thing.

-&-

The wound on his lip had begun to heal as they left the restaurant after closing and ducked into the waiting car. A held the door for them.

“Where to, Captain?”

“Is anyone on Baker Street?” John asked.

“No. Sherlock’s in Whitworth for the week.”

“Mayfair, please.”

“Of course.” Mycroft’s assistant just smiled and gave orders to the driver as she took the front seat. As they got underway, Greg reflected on the past two months. John had been subtle, as he had, and the restraint had been wearing on them both. All Greg had really wanted was a chance to talk to John, see if he felt the same or if it one-sided. He sighed and slid down on the bench, leaning against John as the car manoeuvred through traffic.

“How’s your head?”

“A little foggy, but not at all like the other night.” He smiled, “You’re rather okay with this.”

“I’m wondering how I got so lucky is all.” John was pretty touchy, Greg was okay with that. He took Greg’s hand and held on, rubbing the lines of his palm with his thumb.

“That kind of tickles, y’know.”

“I know.” John smiled, “You can tell me to stop.”

“Please don’t.” Greg linked his fingers through John’s and held on. For two months he’d been thinking about the handsome gifted man next to him, hating his inability to make a move, but now…now there was nothing in his way.

“I guess something good did come out of the divorce.”

“A lot of good came out of it, but…yeah.” He sighed, “I should probably look for a bigger place, huh?”

“Mm, yeah, that might be a good idea. Someplace that’s not too far from The Met but not too far from Baker Street.” John squeezed his hand. Greg felt the car slow and got out first, looking up and down the street as John ducked out of the car.

“See anything?”

“You’ve got better eyesight than I do, but looks quiet to me.” He shrugged and closed the door, following John inside as the car pulled away again. It was late enough there weren’t many people about, and it was quiet in the city. When they finally got back to the penthouse, Greg secured the doors and stilled as a solid body made contact. John was just the perfect height, he noticed, and made some kind of sound as the stocky, faithful soldier hooked his chin over Greg’s shoulder and rested there.

“This is okay?”

“Oh, yeah.” It was more than okay, it was fantastic and fine and he didn’t want John to stop. Selfish bastard, wasn’t he? John chuckled and took him by the hand, leading the way to the master suite. Once the door was closed behind them, clothes came off and were discarded in a messy heap by the bed. John pushed him towards the massive bed and he grabbed the soldier right before his legs gave out and he fell. A solid weight landed on him and John smiled.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m good. You?”

“It’s been driving me crazy all night. _You_ have been driving me crazy for two months.” John held him still, eyes dark. “I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s damn hard to keep my hands to myself.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Consent.” John shook his head, closing his eyes. Greg rolled his eyes and put a hand on the back of John’s neck, digging his fingers into the soft skin at the nape.

“John, look at me.” He kept his voice soft. As stubborn as he was, John kept his eyes closed. Greg sighed and knew this was bigger than consent for a few nights. It had been the first time, and it was again. He held John, one arm around his waist to keep him still, his hand firm against the back of his neck.

“John, sweetheart, look at me.”

“I…can’t. I can’t ask you to do that.” He pressed his forehead against Greg’s collar-bone, “I can’t ask you to…I can’t.”

“John.” He sighed and trailed his fingers along the curves of John’s naked body, remembering snippets of another, very different life. John had never asked for exclusivity, but Lestrade had offered it to him and it had been accepted in the spirit in which it was given. They had never made it public or made it official, but they had been all but married by law. Greg knew what it meant to give yourself to a vampire, what was involved. The young vampire shook in his arms, chest heaving, and he wondered what…oh, hang on. Greg hugged John tight and rolled them over so he was on top, kissed him on the forehead, the nose, and finally on the lips, before moving lower. He moved down the line until he reached his goal and buried his nose where the familiar scent was strongest. He could die tomorrow and die a happy man with few regrets in the world. Except for one: convincing his silly lover that all he actually _had_ to do was ask nicely and Greg was as good as his. Give it a couple of months, a few proper dates, and he was all up for whatever madness lay ahead.

…***…

It had been longer still since he’d given someone head than it had been having sex with a bloke, but Greg had no qualms about going down on John Watson. He spent some time familiarizing himself with John’s cock, the size, feel, and taste of it.

“Been a while since I was involved with one of these that wasn’t mine.” He murmured, taking a deep breath as he went for it. John choked and Greg made a noise as he pinned John’s hips to the mattress. He didn’t have much of a gag-reflex, but John was bucking against restraint. Pulling back, he raised an eyebrow and looked at John.

“S-sorry!”

“I’ll take care of you. Stay still for me.” He kissed the soft skin of John’s left thigh and resettled himself. With some adjusting, he got John’s legs over his shoulders and kept at it, worshipping the rather magnificent cock with the love it deserved. He knew damn well John was clean, and he was not going to let go until he’d wrung the silly idiot dry at least once. Maybe twice. Greg’s refractory period was a bit longer these days, one of the many joys of middle age, but John was no slouch. It wasn’t long before he had John begging and Greg chuckled, a little hard with a full mouth but he managed.

“Greg…Gregory…oh god.” Poor love could barely get his name out. “L-Lestrade…please! Please!” Aha. And there it was. Greg hummed and kept working, adding just the right combination of suction, flick of the tongue, and just a tiny hint of teeth to drag John to the teetering edge and hold him there. And then, right before John tumbled, he could taste it coming and was more than ready for it, Greg slyly added a couple of fingers to the mix. He’d added one early on, just to work things up a bit, and adding two more pulled John straight off the edge and into oblivion and what a fall it was. A quick brush against John’s prostate was all it took, and John was screaming. Greg held him down and swallowed. Pulling off before the lad got too sensitive, Greg executed some clean-up. John just collapsed, panting and limp, and his legs slid from Greg’s shoulders. Greg chuckled and rolled over, clambering from the bed and heading for the en-suite.

“Wh…where are _you_ going?”

“Be right back, love.” He called over his shoulder. Grabbing a flannel, he got it damp and took a minute to rinse out his mouth and brush his teeth. He had learned early that most partners didn’t like being kissed right after a bout of oral sex. Greg wasn’t too terribly fond of the taste himself, it was just a preference. The act was no problem, swallowing was no issue, but if someone _kissed_ him after doing that? It just felt…kind of gross. Sticky, hot, sour. A quick peck? No problem, but he’d…no, that was bad enough. Kissing was supposed to be nice.

He heard a shuffle behind him and tossed the rag over his shoulder. Looking up in the mirror, he caught sight of John, who quickly wiped down and chucked the soiled flannel at a laundry hamper in the corner. The penthouse had a washer/dryer for laundry on-site, which was very convenient.

“That…was cheating. Dirty, sneaky trick.” John leaned against him from behind, forehead against his shoulder, hands resting on his waist.

“Well, I had to get you out of your head somehow, didn’t I?” Greg smiled and finished up. “And it worked, yeah?”

“Not nice, Gregory. Not nice.” John tugged and he followed the young medic back to the bedroom.

Once they were back in the bed, Greg rolled onto his stomach and watched John, who just looked right back at him.

“What are you thinking?”

“If I really am just the luckiest bastard in London.” John’s eyes were soft, starry. “Lucky enough I found one of my dearest and most beloved friends, and he wants to stay.”

“If I didn’t think Sherlock would poison my coffee, I’d move into Baker Street, for Christ’s sake.”

“You would?”

“Mhm. I’d love to.” Greg smiled, "Sure would save me having to house-hunt in this bloody market.”

“It is pretty dismal, isn’t it?” John chuckled, “Plenty to chose from, but good fucking luck finding anything decent in your price-range.”

“I’ll stay where I am for a while longer, no real rush to get out of there. It’s suitable for a misguided bachelor.”

“You wonder.” John rolled so he was on top of Greg, just resting on him from behind, his head tucked alongside Greg’s, his weight on his back and shoulders. A welcome, comfortable weight. John, as was normal for his kind, weighed a bit more than a mortal his size, but it wasn’t by much more than standard. John rubbed his cheek along Greg’s shoulders, occasionally turning his head to lay down a kiss or love-bite, never breaking the skin. The contact stirred up heat in Greg’s gut, and he sighed. John kissed him on the neck, making a content noise.

“May I?” It was a whisper. Greg nodded and felt the mattress sink a bit as John shifted and grabbed the lube out of the night-stand before straddling Greg from behind. Some adjusting got him where John wanted him to be and he grunted when the first cool, nimble finger slid into his body. Oh, that was lovely. God, he’d missed this. And how long had he fantasised about this very thing with John? Maybe too long? Who cared, it was happening right now. It didn’t take long for John, a trained doctor, to find exactly what he was looking for and the noise Greg made was high and needy. That was fine, he _wanted_ to be needy, greedy, and selfish. He was, really.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to share with anyone else. Sherlock didn’t really count because John already lived with him and he was, to their best knowledge, Ace. Sexual intercourse was not a big deal for him and he probably didn’t care a whistle what John did and with whom, as long he didn’t bring anyone home to Baker Street. Unless Greg ended up _living_ there, which was completely different. He’d probably look into making something of the basement flat. It wasn’t livable at the moment, but it…oh, it certainly could be. And the privacy would be lovely.

“Stop. Thinking.” John scolded, giving his fingers a mean twist. When had he added another finger? Oh, god. Greg whined as those clever fingers scissored and brushed against his prostate, over and over. But John wasn’t going to let him come, so Greg buried his groan in the sheets, fisting handfuls of the fabric, and dug his knees in for traction. Suddenly, he was flipped over onto his back and John just flashed him that cheeky grin of his before he went down on Greg, who couldn't swallow his yell.

“Shhh.” A hand came up and covered his mouth. He whined and gasped and begged for mercy. But John had better use for that talented mouth than telling him off and he barely had time to warn the man before his climax roared up on him and out like a flood. John took every drop, milked him dry as a bone, and disappeared into the en-suite. He heard the water run and smiled. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot. Looked to him like John Hamish Watson had come to his senses after all.

“I _heard_ that!”

“Yeah? What about it, then?”

“Jesus, you’re a cheeky bastard.” John came out, tossing a rag over his shoulder as he left the en-suite, “Most blokes wouldn’t have the awareness to put words together at all after something like that!”

“I, sir, am not “most blokes”, ta.”

“Never said you were, never expected you to be.” John smiled and hopped onto the bed, bouncing the mattress, “Up for another round, then, old man?”

“Call me old man again.” He rolled his eyes. John was older than him by a couple of centuries, that didn’t really hold much water.

“Old man.” A kiss to his hair. “Old man.” A kiss to the tip of his nose. “Old. Man.” A proper kiss tasting of mouthwash, copper, and faintly of spunk. “My old man. My Lestrade.” Possessive bastard, wasn’t he?

“Of course I’m a possessive bastard. Why not?” John settled between his thighs and studied him, “When’s the last time you did this?”

“Last time I was on this side? Been a while.”

“I’ll take care of you.” John smiled and nudged Greg’s legs wider, tugging him into position. Greg let him have his way and watched for as long as he could. The angle needed some adjusting, but that first brush against Greg’s prostate put fireworks behind his eyelids and his eyes rolled back. John chuckled and repeated the motion, swallowing the resulting moan with a kiss.

“Like that, did you?”

“God, don’t stop! Please don’t stop!” He pressed his forehead against John’s collar-bone, trying to catch his breath. John rolled his hips again. They settled into an age-old rhythm and Greg’s only regret was that John had worn a condom. He could only imagine how much _better_ it would be if John had left that detail off. That, of course, got to him and the young medic chuckled, his eyes bright.

“Next time, my dear. Next time.” He huffed, breath cool against Greg’s neck, “Now, hang onto me. Hold tight.” Greg put his arms around John’s shoulders and held on for everything he had in him as the pace picked up. John grunted, muttering in some foreign tongue he didn’t recognise, and Greg tightened his grip on John, panting as his body tried to keep up. He’d already climaxed once, there was no way he’d be able to get it up again this quick. John’s momentum stuttered and Greg pulled him down until they were flush, holding him still with one hand to the back of John’s neck. Some low, dangerous sound rumbled in John’s chest and Greg whimpered as he felt a sharp pain in his neck as John sank his fangs deep in the muscle where neck and shoulder met. It was beautiful.

This. This right here was trust between partners. John was simply holding him, not taking anything from him. The endorphin rush was just the same, heightened by climax, and John’s sturdy frame went lax with a muffled sound that was more moan than sigh. It was relief. Greg held on tight, tight enough a mortal partner would have objected, catching his breath and letting John do what he wanted. He had heard of vampires doing this with chosen mortal mates, using only teeth to connect in a different way with their partners during intercourse. After a while, John very carefully pulled out and went to get a warm cloth. Once cursory clean-up had been done, he dragged the blankets up from the foot of the bed and laid down with Greg, paying attention to the mark on his shoulder.

...***...

“Sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“That didn’t hurt, John. I didn’t feel any pain.” He promised. John smiled against Greg’s skin. Greg wished so badly another “sip” was allowed.

“You like that, don’t you?” John murmured, getting comfortable.

“Is that bad?”

“Nope. Sip feedings don’t take as much out of the provider as full feedings do, they can be far more frequent.” His voice was soft and faint with sleep, Greg smiled and tugged him closer, letting John’s head come to rest on his chest.

“Later, love. Sleep for now. You need it.” He stroked his fingers through the soft blond strands. John’s hair had long since grown out of regulation length, but Greg kind of liked it that way. He fell asleep soon after John did, and slept long and hard.

-&-

Six hours later, Greg was pulled from a deep sleep by what smelled like bacon. Rolling out of bed, Greg trudged into the en-suite and took care of business, daring to look at his reflection in the mirror. Two-day stubble, eyes rimmed red with too much caffeine and not enough sleep, and two marks on his neck from the fun he’d already had with John. He rubbed the mark covering his assault-scar and smiled. John was the only person he would ever allow to touch his neck again. And John was also going to be the only vampire ever allowed to have him, to touch and take him. Anyone else who tried would be in for a bad time of things. Greg made his way out to the kitchen and found John at the range, fixing breakfast. Bacon, eggy bread, roasted tomatoes, mushrooms, beans. God, maybe he didn’t eat much, but John could clearly cook! Greg smelled coffee and took the cup John handed him.

“Oh, god. This smells fantastic.”

“Hungry?”

“Famished!” He sipped at the coffee and leaned against the breakfast bar, watching John move around the space. When John pushed him out of the way, he stole a kiss in passing.

“Brat.”

“Problem?” He just grinned and hopped up on the bar, swinging his feet as John plated the prepared food and held one up in offer. The noise he made was soft and wistful. John smiled and put it down by one of the high stools.

“Alright, come and eat, you. You’re going to need your strength.”

“Yessir.” He hopped down and took the indicated seat. John had placed a plate of food, a fresh cup of coffee, and a glass of orange juice at his seat. A breakaway pill packet sat by the juice-glass.

“Iron tablets. Take them. Then eat.” John said, voice brooking no argument. Greg did as told and cleared his plate for a second helping. John just watched him, smiling.

-&-

After breakfast, Greg did the wash-up and cleaned up the kitchen. He liked being useful instead of just sitting around doing nothing. Once the kitchen was clean to his standards, which were pretty strict, Greg went to the living-room and found John reading on the couch. Without looking up, the observant soldier made a very clear “come here” gesture, and Greg didn’t waste a minute. Some rearranging got them comfortable and he ended up with John’s head in his lap while he kept reading and the telly played on low volume for background noise. Not surprisingly, John was a very tactile person, very fond of touching. He kind of always had been, but being _allowed_ to touch was different. Greg was still getting used to that. John had no problem with intimate contact, obviously, and was content to use one hand to turn the pages of his book while he stroked the underside of Greg’s wrist with the other. Greg, likewise, used his free hand to play with John’s hair, marvelling at the length of it.

Despite his condition, John could process normal food, move about in daylight hours, and experienced normal hair growth. It was an evolutionary effect, the result of centuries of adaptation to a lifestyle very different from the one he’d known before and adjusting behaviours as necessary to fit in with changing times. And really, if you didn’t already know, it wasn’t immediately obvious that he was a vampire. Sometimes, you knew right away, others, you didn’t. Greg heard a strange sound from John and looked down.

“What?”

“You’ve a very bizarre thought-process, did you know that?”

“Sorry. I keep forgetting you can hear me.” He shrugged, “Can’t really help it, though, y’know?”

“I’m not judging you.” John looked up from his book and smiled, just a hint of sharp teeth, “Trust me, I am not judging you.”

“Still. It’s…can you blame me?” Greg made a face. John marked his page before tossing the book aside. Faster than Greg could blink, John was straddling his lap and looking down at him from a slightly elevated position.

“What is it you want from me, Gregory Lestrade?” John’s voice was a soft rumble, his hands were touching familiar features in a new face, eyes bright and yet soft. “You keep thinking it, I want you to say it out loud. I want to hear those very same words from your lips.” Greg looked up at him, studying an ageless, familiar face. Could this really be his? All of this?

“Say it out loud. Just for me.” John murmured, nuzzling behind his ear, “I’ve gone half-mad these last two months, Greg.”

“Whatever we had…once. Can we have it again? Is it possible to have that?”

“Is that what you want?”

“God, yes. Please.”

“Give yourself to me. Everything that you are.”

“All of it. Yours. God, please, John!” Greg hated begging, but he couldn’t help it. John chuckled and kissed a soft trail from his ear to his lips.

“Mine.” He rumbled.

“Please.”

“Always.” John’s touch was magic, Greg was…content. This was good.

* * *

 


	9. Trouble, Thy Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble comes to Baker Street in familiar, fair form. John is NOT amused, and definitely not happy to see him. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for safety.  
> ::  
> We see things from Sherlock's POV for this bit. More in the next chapter!  
> ::  
> I'm kind of mean to the boys in this chapter. So sorry. So, SO sorry.  
> ::  
> This signifier/placeholder: ...***...***...***... marks where the naughty bits begin and end. Please read accordingly. If hot and steamy smut between to fully consenting adults is your cup of tea, then read to your heart's content. If sexual acts of any graphic description make you squick, feel free to skip. That is all. Please and thank you.

* * *

As with all things, chaos visited itself upon Baker Street soon after Greg and John made their relationship exclusive. In the end, their one relief was knowing that the bomber leading them along with a string of interconnected puzzles and victims ostensibly didn’t know about Noelle. John, however, and much to the horror of Greg and Sherlock, was apparently fair game. The deadly game of cat-and-mouse meets Marco Polo came to a head when John was snatched from Baker Street. He didn’t go down without a good fight, of course, and had to admit waking up strapped to a bomb was actually kind of a first for him. The man behind the phone-calls revealed himself to be Molly Hooper’s unassuming boyfriend, Jim Moriarty. John had encountered plenty of truly reprehensible individuals, Moriarty was small-fry for all of his cunning and influence. John had encountered men who held the security of the _world_ in their hands. Jim, he had the UK, parts of North-Central Europe, and…that was about it. Not much.

Moriarty’s mistake, which had been made by others before him, was assuming that John was Sherlock’s obedient pet. The clumsy, jumper-wearing ex-soldier who loved adrenaline enough to disregard the rules when he had to, harmless and unthreatening. No one ever seemed to consider that John was just exactly the kind of person you _shouldn’t_ underestimate.

“Sherlock! Run!” He growled, hanging onto Moriarty tight enough to make a point but not tight enough to raise questions. _“Run!”_

“Oops!” Moriarty giggled, unaware or uncaring of the very real mortal danger he was in. “Seems you’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson, haven’t you?”  Sherlock stood frozen, a few feet in front of them, Moriarty stood between John and Sherlock, John had one arm around his throat. Any closer and he’d be able to rip the bastard’s throat out. And oh he wanted to! Oh how badly he wanted to spill blood!

“Daddy’s done playing now. Back. Off.”

“I don’t fucking _think_ so! You walk away from this, you’ll come back over and over and over to bother Baker Street. I saw it before!” John snarled, his voice dropping several octaves, it only did that if he was truly furious, “I remember you, y’know? I never forget faces, and yours…your predecessor? I will never forget James Moriarty or the hell he put me through!”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t remember me, _James_ , but I swore an oath that day. Wherever I went, however long I lived in this miserable fucking world, I would protect Sherlock Holmes. And you? You would die.”

“Wouldn’t bet on that, Johnny boy.”

“Oh? I can kill you, get Sherlock out, and pop your idiot snipers in the time it takes a normal person to _blink_ , Moriarty.” He bared his fangs, “See, I’m not helpless.” For a minute, his eyes flashed red. He looked right at Sherlock.

“I won’t tell you again, Sherlock. Run. Get out. I’ll be fine. Call The Met.” As if under some spell, Sherlock nodded and left quietly. No one tried to stop him, and as soon as the door slammed, John tightened his grip on Moriarty, looking up at the galleries. “Drop your weapons now! All of you, or he’s dead before you pull the trigger!”

“They won’t…take orders from you!” Moriarty choked.

“Wanna bet on that, Moriarty?” He hissed, looking up in the direction of one of the snipers. His eyes flashed red again and he raised his voice but lowered the octave.

“I said drop your weapons! Right now!” By sound, he tracked when each sniper laid down their arms. One hesitated and John scraped the side of Moriarty’s throat with his teeth, “I said NOW!” There was a clatter and he reacted. In a flash, he had snapped Moriarty’s neck and moved on to dispatch the snipers. Ripping off the vest, he threw it into the pool. John’s superior hearing caught a soft noise in the gallery, a rustling, a groan. One of the snipers was still alive. Cursing an oversight he couldn’t have predicted, John listened for other signs of life. He heard muffled groaning and a distinct click. That, if he wasn’t mistaken, was a  detonator switch. The explosion wouldn’t kill him, but if he was in the wrong place, it would definitely hurt. John bolted for the utility closet he’d woken up in as the pool-deck went up in a fiery display. He slammed into a wall of shelves and curled up instinctively, groaning as his head spun. His hearing was washed out by the roar of the explosion.

 As soon as it was quiet, the only sound the ringing in his ears, John shoved unsteadily to his feet and shook off the debris that had landed on him. The whole pool-deck, and part of the adjacent space, had collapsed in the explosion. Enough explosive to level a small house. Definitely enough to punch a hole in a leisure centre complex. Getting his bearings, John headed for where he thought the entrance was. They wouldn’t be expecting him to walk out of this alive, but he was. A bit beat up, a bit dizzy, but…he was alive. Thank Christ. And so was Sherlock, and so was Greg. It didn’t take long for a couple of firefighters to find him and hustle him over to a waiting ambulance to get whatever help they could offer him.

-&-

Sherlock Holmes knew something bad was going to happen, he knew that Moriarty wouldn’t just let either of them walk away from his little game. People had died, several people. Some of them innocent. And then he’d taken John Watson. Very little could make Sherlock physically ill, but seeing his best friend strapped to a bomb had certainly done the trick. And Moriarty thought he had them right where he wanted them, right where they didn’t want to be. But John had shown his true colours, had glamoured Sherlock to run while he could, to escape. And now, he was waiting for…something. For John to walk out of that building by himself, for an explosion, for a taunting phone-call from Moriarty. Greg Lestrade waited with him, just as nervous, just as worried. Two Met vans, two teams of men and women to dismantle the bomb and rescue John, and a small fleet of marked and unmarked patrol vehicles, three fire-trucks and two ambulances waited as well. They even had a DSU team on hand! This was all for John, these people were all here for John. It amazed Sherlock how many people _liked_ John. People put up with Sherlock, but they _liked_ John, loved him even. Not that Sherlock blamed any of them, the blond-haired vampire was one of the kindest people he had ever met.

Suddenly, it got very quiet on the street and Sherlock swore he felt the ground shake.

“What’s that?” Greg murmured, the same question being asked by every single person on-scene.

“Oh no.” Sherlock looked up at the façade of the building he had been lucky enough to walk out of. Grabbing Greg, he ducked around the far side of Greg’s car away from the building.

“Sherlock!”

“Everyone get down! Down, now! Get down now!” He yelled, hitting the ground and covering Greg out of instinct. Not a split second later, everything was in chaos as an explosion ripped through the building they had been watching, the building Sherlock had walked into, a clever trap, and walked out of again. The debris had barely stopped falling, and there was debris falling, when Sherlock was back on his feet. Greg was right with him and they looked at each other, coughing and shaking bits of masonry and…who knew what out of their clothes and hair when it suddenly occurred to them, and to everyone else, what had just happened.

“Oh my god.” Someone else whispered.

“John!” Greg stared at the burning building, “No! Oh no! John!”

“Greg! Stop!” Sherlock reached out to catch him before he got himself hurt. “We can’t go in there, it’s not safe!”

“John’s in there!”

“Greg, stop! John’s…John’s dead, don’t do it!” Sherlock wasn’t actually sure, he hated not knowing, but it would take a legitimate miracle for John to walk away from something like this. It took two constables, three sergeants, and Sherlock to hold Greg back as the proper teams were dispatched to the wreckage. And with everyone already on site, that didn’t take very long at all. God help them if a bomb was the end of John Hamish Watson. Sherlock wouldn’t be the only one seeking a violent end to whatever remained of Jim Moriarty’s criminal networks. London would be the first to go, and that branch would go down _very_ quickly and violently. Then the other UK gangs, before moving on to the European branches and doing the same there. The criminal under-classes of London would have a _very_ hard time of things after this.

 

It was only when Greg’s knees buckled that Sherlock had to finally move him. Reinforcements had arrived and he bundled Greg into an ambulance. Sherlock, who eschewed emotion of all sorts, found himself comforting Greg as the older man wept. He knelt beside the gurney, holding Greg’s hands in his, just giving him something to hold onto, something solid.

“I’m sorry, Greg. I am so, _so_ sorry.” He whispered, “I can’t imagine how it hurts.” Greg’s pain would be far different from Sherlock’s. He had simply lost a best friend and close confidant, Greg had lost something far, _far_ more…more. Greg had lost a lover, a confidant, a source of advice and support most people would give a king’s ransom to have for themselves. There was history between them, a deep, intimate history the likes of which Sherlock could only hope for and would never demand from either of them. Greg’s head landed on his shoulder as he rested his forehead on their joined hands and Sherlock wished for anything, _anything_ to bring John back. Maybe a miracle? That’s what it would bloody well take. Something in Sherlock’s chest broke loose and a tenuous hold on the tears he had tried to hold back let go. He wasn’t sobbing, but there were many tears, and anyone who questioned his emotional capability would be either proven gloriously correct or equally wrong.

It took a touch on his sleeve to register the outside world. Turning his head, he caught sight of Sally Donovan, of all people. She stood just outside the ambulance, her radio raised as she took reports from the field.

“Yeah, copy that. I’ve got ‘em here. Hang on.” She released the press-to-talk button, shaking her head, “Um, hey, Boss?” Greg’s shoulders heaved and the noise he made wasn’t exactly human. Sherlock winced.

“What is it, Sergeant Donovan?”

“Uh, y-you’d better…we’ve got something.” Donovan looked...nervous? Scared? What was that emotion, exactly? Relief?

“Where?”

“In another ambulance. You’d better come.” She frowned as her radio squealed.

“Say again, 6-12?” The information was repeated and she nodded, “Roger. Boss?”

“Yeah.” Greg sounded awful as he uncurled. It took Sherlock, both medics, and Donovan to get him onto the tarmac. Sherlock steadied the DI and put an arm around him to keep him upright.

“That way.” Donovan pointed and Sherlock nodded, making his way around their ambulance. Two ambulances over, past one of the fire-trucks and three squad-cars, Sherlock caught a glimpse of blond, grey, and…orange? The shock-blanket, right. Clearing the bay-door between them, he let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank living Christ! Thank God!” Not that Sherlock _believed_ in God, but stumbling upon your own flat-mate alive and well and _not fucking dead_ was pretty much a fucking miracle. He gave Greg a shake, trying to get his attention. The poor man had stopped dead in his tracks and covered his face with both hands and the blanket.

“I can’t, Sherlock!”

“Greg, please?” He tugged on the blanket, “You…really need to look.” All he got was a quick shake of the silver head. Well, they could always do this the shock-value way. That would about do the trick. Sherlock sighed and, with one arm tight around Greg’s shaking frame, he turned towards that ambulance and whistled. John, of course, looked up right away. Spotting them, he was up on his feet in a flash and pulling his own shock-blanket tight around his shoulders. It was obvious John wasn’t unscathed, his footing wasn’t very sure. But that was bound to happen to anyone who survived a bomb going off right next to them.

Sherlock went back over everything he had ever read about vampires and post-trauma healing. The easiest and fastest way to help an injured vampire heal was to provide fresh blood, preferably from a living source. Even better was a loved one. That required him getting John and Greg far away from this location as soon as possible. For the moment, he held out his free hand to his blogger, inviting him to come closer. Desperate to reassure himself that _they_ were unharmed, John closed the distance between them and grabbed Sherlock by the hand. His own hands were shaking, his skin was far too cold, and there was a disturbing lack of focus to his eyes. All symptoms that were perfectly acceptable. John, distressed, kissed Sherlock’s hand. It was his way of showing affection and gratitude, a habit going back to the 1880s when he had first taken rooms at Baker Street with Sherlock’s other self and begun the inglorious, often-thankless work of solving the crimes of Victoria’s London. Sherlock pulled John in and kissed him. Just on the temple. John, in turn, buried his face in Sherlock’s coat for a minute to refamiliarize himself with the scent of a most beloved friend before he turned from Sherlock to Greg. In a heartbeat, John and Greg were hugging. But it wasn’t _just_ a hug. It was an embrace, a lover’s embrace. And Sherlock held them both. After a while, John raised his head.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Let’s go home. I’ve…had enough for a while. I just want to go home.”

“Absolutely. We aren’t needed here. If they require our assistance, they can come to us. In two days. I’m taking you both home right now.” Breaking the unspoken rule that no “dates” were allowed into Baker Street outside of a quick “hi, how are you, goodbye” visit. Sherlock knew Greg was different, was special, and that rule did not apply to the DI who loved his blogger.

While Greg and John supported each other, Sherlock led the way, ignoring everyone who attempted to stop them and holding the line for the pair. Donovan came up as they cleared the line.

“Where are you going?”

“Home, Donovan. Doctor Watson isn’t well and there’s nothing the paramedics can reasonably do. Anyone trained in vampire anatomy and biology knows this. For his safety and everyone else’s, I’m taking him home. Lestrade is coming with us, if you absolutely need him, you are free to call him or call upon Baker Street. In two days.”

“But…”

“Two. Days. Donovan. See to it the rest of them get the memo.” He spotted the black car sitting on the kerb, “Good morning.” With a brisk nod, he left her standing there, puzzled and shaken. That was fine, she didn’t need to know anything beyond what she already did. Once the door of the car had closed, isolating them from the chaos, Mycroft knocked on the divider and the car rolled into motion. It was very clear that this violent and unexpected turn of events had shaken his brother as much as it had the rest of them.

“Are you alright, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft asked, despite knowing damn well he wasn’t. John just shook his head. Mycroft reached for something beside him and passed John an opaque reusable water bottle. Sherlock knew what it was and blessed his brother for being prepared. It wasn’t what John needed, but it would tide him over until they could get back to Baker Street.

“I have taken the liberty of arranging for the three of you to step away from your respective jobs following tonight’s…unexpected turn of events.” Mycroft twirled his brolly absently, he never went anywhere without the damn thing, looking from Sherlock to Greg and finally to John, who sat between them.

“It is understood that the personal nature of the final chapter may have affected those involved a bit beyond what the public will see.”

“This is going to be all over the news tomorrow.”

“Today. Already tomorrow.” John rubbed his forehead as he sipped from the bottle in his hand, “Second time I’ve done that. Last time, slimy little fucker disappeared in a waterfall, I dragged his arse out of the river three days later and got every answer I needed out of him before I put an end to him. This time, I didn’t give him a chance to act.”

“There will be other, similar threats to Moriarty.”

“And I’ll deal with them in the same way.” John narrowed his eyes, “You do not fuck with my family and expect me to play by your rules.”

“Those who make that mistake often do not make it again.” Sherlock could not count on two hands how many times, both in this lifetime and a very different one, John had taken matters into his own hands on Sherlock’s behalf. Tonight was just one of many such incidences.

“I’ve lost more than enough loved ones for a few lifetimes. I think it’s understood if I’d like to preserve those I still have with me.” John’s voice softened and Sherlock looked over as he took Greg’s hand. He had a thought and worried his lip for a moment before he picked up his phone and composed a quick text. Yes, Mycroft was sitting right across from them, but this wasn’t exactly something he wanted to discuss with the parties in question in the car.

 

**What would it take to make 221C a livable, habitable space at Baker Street? – SH**

Mycroft’s phone buzzed, and he saw his brother’s brow wrinkle. But when he saw the message, his expression smoothed out and he looked up at Sherlock, who just shrugged.

                          

**I imagine that is something to discuss with Mrs Hudson as well, but nothing I would be unwilling to provide for. Labor and materials at the least, and time. – MH**

**What were you thinking? – MH**

**We’ve discussed Lestrade coming live at Baker Street for quite a while, but John has suggested that he deserves his own space. – SH**

**Discuss it with them. Get back to me once a decision has been reached. – MH**

**If it is a remodel of 221C, I will make arrangements. If it is Lestrade moving into 221B and sharing John’s living-quarters, that is also very acceptable. – MH**

**I’d like to do something with the basement, regardless. If Lestrade doesn’t live there, perhaps I can turn it into a lab-space. – SH**

Sherlock sent that final text and pocketed his phone. Mycroft just nodded in understanding. And unspoken was if Greg _did_ move into Baker Street, and into 221B, Sherlock was willing to switch rooms with John and give them his larger room and move into John’s room. It wasn’t much smaller than the room he kept at his parents’ house in Sussex, and he had made do with far less space in the past. But that decision would wait until later. For now, the focus was on getting home and helping John. The remainder of the drive back to Baker Street was quiet, Sherlock was fine with the silence.

-&-

 When they got back to the house, he thanked Mycroft for getting them home and helped Greg get John upstairs. Sherlock watched them go up the stairs to the second floor and sighed.

“Good night, John. Good night, Lestrade.”

“Good night, Sherlock.” John sounded so very faint. “See you tomorrow.” Once the door had closed, Sherlock retreated to his own room and decided a shower was in order. Knowing John would want one of his own, he made quick work of it and made sure to vacate the bathroom in time to give John his space. Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen doing nothing in particular, checking on a few experiments he had running and fixing himself tea, as John took care of business.

“Tea, John?”

“A bit, please.” Came the weary response from the bathroom. He nodded and fixed three cups, one for each of them. Leaving John’s on the table by his microscope, where he always left it when John was elsewhere and Sherlock was busy, he took one up to Greg, who lay curled up on the double in John’s room, the small bed just the right size for the two of them. The man barely acknowledged Sherlock, who knocked before entering, and that same ache from the scene came back to his chest.

How fucking close had they come tonight? How devastatingly, terrifyingly close had they come? Moriarty had accused _them_ of getting too close to him, but Sherlock was fairly certain it was the other way ‘round. He had been so enthralled with Moriarty’s clever puzzles that he had completely ignored everything else. The clever madman had snuck in far too close for comfort to Sherlock and his loved ones and if he had survived tonight, would have gone on to cause plenty of grief to Baker Street. But John, wonderful John, clever John, had taken matters into his own hands and quite likely saved not only Sherlock, but Greg and Molly and anyone else involved with the mess. Moriarty, it seemed, was far more deadly and clever than they had given him credit for, but because he had taken John Watson hostage, whatever remained of his networks would not stand a chance against the likes of some very, _very_ angry friends of interest. Greg and The Met would take care of local London branches, and Sherlock suspected Mycroft’s people in MI-5 and MI-6 would take care of the rest. Mycroft respected John, far more than anyone else who wasn’t family, and Greg…well, Greg’s loyalty was without question. He would kill for John if pressed.

Rolling over to pick up the cup Sherlock had set down for him, he saw something in Greg’s hand, a glint of silver that turned out to be John’s tags. Ah.

“He’s still with us, Greg.” Sherlock said quietly, one hand on the DI’s shoulder, “We didn’t lose him tonight. He’s still here with us.”

“Too fucking close for comfort.” Greg muttered, half of that was swallowed with tea, “Don’t ever let that happen again, Sherlock.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I won’t put him in that kind of danger again if I can help it.” He conceded. They both knew it was an impossible promise to make or keep, but he would do his best. “I can’t keep him from rushing headfirst into danger for my sake. Have you tried to stop him?”

“Not recently. Too fucking bad handcuffs aren’t much use with him, eh?” Ah, there was a hint of a smile. Sherlock chuckled, unable to help himself.

“No, but quicksilver cuffs are quite effective, aren’t they?”

“Hmm. Can be, used properly.”

“But you don’t use Quicksilver handcuffs.” Never on John, the one time or two that stocky bastard had gotten himself clapped for some reason or another, usually right alongside Sherlock and grinning like a fiend the whole while, content to wait in Holding until Mycroft came to break them out.

“Thought about it, not about to,” Greg muttered, gulping his hot tea like it was all that existed, holding the cup just a little too tight. Once the tea was gone, Sherlock took the empty cup and left Greg. John was in the kitchen leaning against the range, holding his own empty cup, quiet and shaken. Sherlock hated seeing him like this, rarely ever was it this bad.

“John?”

“He would have killed you. I couldn’t let him do that.” John’s eyes were nearly black, he needed to feed, and very soon. “Not again. Not _ever_ again.”

“John, you are worthless to us dead. Moriarty won’t be returning from wherever you sent him, I’m certain of that.” He soothed, “I’m not going anywhere. Go be with Greg. He needs you.” Sherlock risked touching his flat-mate but received no violence. John’s hand closed around his wrist and the vampire turned to nuzzle the soft, scarred skin there. A soft graze of teeth, no damage done. A reminder. He watched as John’s nostrils flared and he turned his head more.

“You’re sober.”

“Have been for months.” Since John had brought him to Baker Street, in fact. He smoked, they all did, but drugs had not entered Baker Street once since November and he had not sought them out elsewhere. John smiled, and Sherlock knew how important it was to him that this was something they were allowed to do. What was it he always said? “I keep my partner safe and I keep my inspector happy”?

“You pay attention.”

“Of course I pay attention. It’s important, like everything about you is.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Please don’t ever change. Not for anything. Please.” John kissed the healthy pulse, “Stay my crazy, inconsiderate Holmes.”

“I make no promises. But I can certainly try.” He felt John’s smile against his skin. Soft footsteps on the stairs coming down brought the third of their number. Sherlock hadn’t been brave enough to ask for a night, but trust John to know exactly what he needed _and_ wanted. In no time at all, the door of his bedroom had been locked, as had both doors into the flat from outside, and they let John choose. It had to be one of them, either of them or even both, the choice was his. Sherlock may not enjoy sexual intercourse, but John had a way of turning a simple sip feeding into something beautifully sensual and even erotic. He could see why there was so much overhyped literature about the romantic aspects of vampires, they were very gifted lovers.

John chose Greg first, as Sherlock had known he would, and he settled alongside the couple to hold Greg’s hand in his as John fed on Greg and made love to him. He may not enjoy the act performed on himself (except in very, VERY rare instances), but Sherlock adored watching Greg and John together. He snuck in a quick kiss over John’s head, not at all sorry about it. Kissing, cuddling, affirmative touch. That was his drug, that made him happy and slowed his racing brain. And that, really, was just fine. John made an annoyed sound and lifted his head to shoot Sherlock a baleful look.

“Sherlock.”

“Oh, stop it. You have very little to complain about.” He scolded his flat-mate, leaning over to kiss him as well, just a quick peck on the corner of his mouth.

“You’re impossible.” John was clearly beginning to feel much better, which made him _very_ happy.

“So I hear.” Sherlock grinned. Greg snorted and Sherlock settled back to watch.

“Oh, don’t get too comfortable, Holmes. You’re next.” John warned. Sherlock chuckled and knew it would be a threat worth the wait to fulfil.


	10. Home Is Where The Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Camden, things start to calm down at Baker Street, and Sherlock gets some quality time with John while Greg watches. Surprise, surprise, Sherlock Holmes has a heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immediate pick up where "Trouble, Thy Name" leaves off.  
> ::  
> Also, credit where credit is due. My dear and distant friend I_am_lampy is responsible for writing the feeding interaction. She wrote it for me ages and ages ago for a different story, and I adapted and put it to use for the boys in this chapter. Teddy, my love, thank you for writing this so long ago and letting me have it for myself so I could play with it.

* * *

To his credit, John didn’t make Sherlock wait very long. While they left Greg to recover, tucked under the covers and given plenty of room if he wanted to roll over (Sherlock’s bed was ridiculously big for one person, but just the right size for three), John turned his attention to Sherlock. He was familiar with the mechanics, of course, this wasn’t the first time he had done this with John, but there was a sort of anticipation that always made his skin itch. John went over every solitary inch of him, from head to toe, paying special attention to a few specific places on Sherlock’s body. He whined as sharp teeth grazed the femoral artery, followed by a soothing lick.

If John felt like playing a dirty game, he would sip from Sherlock’s femoral artery with three fingers in his arse, playing him like a finely-tuned instrument in the hands of a master. As a doctor, John knew exactly where the prostate gland was and exactly how to stimulate it to best effect. And then, once he had Sherlock strung out to within an inch of whatever was left of his conscious mind, he would pull away just for a moment and then Sherlock would be filled, almost beyond comfort, and John would settle in for a long, satisfying round of sex, driving Sherlock to complete madness and begging for relief, finally dragging him over the edge and into that blissful white nothingness of a good climax when he was ready.

“Oh, take it easy, you silly thing.” John murmured against Sherlock’s skin, reading him like an open book. “You’ll get your turn.”

“Jesus, please, John! Please.” He reached for his best friend, threading his fingers through soft, grey-blonde strands. John was growing his hair out, he noticed. Sherlock sighed as John got the hint and made his way back up Sherlock’s body for a proper kiss. John wasn’t strong enough for their usual fun, but Sherlock could get something out of this. They both could. He touched what he could reach, which was a rather good bit of the ageless soldier’s body, holding John close. Tonight was for reaffirmation, for giving thanks to whatever kind deities watched over the foolish of the world, for existing together in the moment. When he felt the familiar sharp graze of teeth along his throat, Sherlock stilled. Normally, John didn’t take from him anywhere above the torso, preferring other, less-obvious, less-stereotypical sites.

“John?”

“Please.” It was more sound than actual word.

“Is that what you want tonight?”

“Please, Sherlock.” John nuzzled where the blood thrummed strongest in his carotid artery. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.” John could have asked him to steal the moon and Sherlock would have tried. He noticed that John was avoiding eye-contact and keeping his voice down, he didn’t want to unfairly influence Sherlock by taking away his power of choice, inadvertently forcing him to agree to something he may not want to have anything to do with. John had fed on him before, that wasn’t the hang-up. Sherlock tugged on John’s hair until the soldier looked up at him. He smiled and leaned in until their noses touched.

“John, you nearly died tonight. I shouldn’t be so lucky. Take whatever you need of me tonight. Help your body heal properly.”

“I…won’t need much. The bottle Mycroft gave me helped, and I took from Greg, too.” John tilted his head, “You’re not scar-shy, are you?”

“Not for something this important.” He shrugged, “Besides, why would I want to hide a bite-scar from you, John?” Sherlock was working through equations and math-work in his head, working over how much more John would need to heal completely. He wasn’t as badly-injured as some, and by his evaluation, John had already consumed nearly a pint and a half of blood, half of it fresh. Another equivalent draw would probably be enough. John rested against him, pressed together chest to hips, just…existing in a moment of quiet. Sherlock smiled and nuzzled John’s cheek, marvelling at the scratch of stubble against his skin.

“I _can_ hear you, y’know,” John muttered. He chuckled and kissed the bit of skin closest to reach.

“I know. You don’t mind.”

“Lucky you.”

“Oh, would the two of you just get on it with already? The sexual tension in this bedroom is about to set my hair on end.” Greg muttered from his nest of blankets. Sherlock looked at John and they broke into a fit of giggles. It was a release they’d needed without knowing, and John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s collar-bone for a minute to catch his breath.

“It’s been a while,” he murmured, “this isn’t going to be very comfortable. I’m sorry.”

“You need help, John, and we’re safe here. Take what you need of me.” He rubbed the back of John’s neck. He knew this was going to hurt, but it was worth every discomfort to help John, who needed him now as he had not before.

“Here.” John nipped at the pulse at his throat, not breaking the skin. “Or, here.” A sharp pressure against the subclavian artery. One would be highly visible, the other more typically concealed. The idea of John marking him so near his heart, which the world had learned the existence of tonight, had some appeal to Sherlock.

“Here?” John nuzzled the bit of skin beneath his clavicle, worrying it with his teeth. “You want me to take from you here, then?”

“Yes, I do.” He tightened his fingers on the back of John’s neck as he shimmied down and got into a more comfortable position. “This ridiculously sentimental thing wouldn’t beat if not for you, John Watson.”

“What a lucky man I am.” John murmured, laying a trail of kisses on Sherlock’s chest, “A beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Besides the man in his arms, of course.

“You sentimental idiot.”

“ _Your_ sentimental idiot, Doctor Watson.” Greg murmured, having rolled over to watch them, “That’s a pretty intimate spot, Sherlock, are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Brave man, you are.” The gifted DI shook his head fondly. John rolled his eyes at the two of them and played a bit, licking, suckling, and leaving tiny love-bites in strategic places.

 

John hummed as he worked over Sherlock’s body, spending a bit of time between his thighs with Sherlock’s rather interested penis. Weakened by injury, he was still strong enough to play. That was a relief, actually. Sherlock gasped as John deep-throated him in a single smooth motion, forgetting for a moment that the vampire had no gag-reflex, so he wasn’t quite in danger of choking if Sherlock bucked under him. Which, shamefully, he did. John just chuckled and took his sweet time until Sherlock was literally begging. But instead of swallowing, John pulled off at just the last minute and came back up to kiss Sherlock. He tried so hard to focus. John chuckled and looked at him.

“Well, you look properly wrecked, and I haven’t even touched you.”

“You play a dirty game.”

“Of course I do! This is a surprise to you?” John wiggled his eyebrows and resettled his weight. Sherlock, on instinct, braced his hands against John’s arms and helped John get settled. Greg, tired of just watching, rolled over, kicked off the blankets, and helped Sherlock prop John up. The communal groan was soft as John used one hand to keep Sherlock from flagging as Greg slowly, carefully worked him open. When he was thoroughly prepared, John adjusted his stance and, with Greg bracing him from behind, lowered himself. The selfish relief was shared by all three of them as John took Sherlock into his body. As a rule, they always used condoms when they engaged in any sexual activity besides oral, and only then if they knew the other party was clean. And almost every time they did, the state of health of the partner in question was well-known.

Once John was seated to the hilt on Sherlock, he took a minute to adjust. Sherlock knew John couldn’t support himself this time and put his arms around the faithful vampire, carefully rolling them so he was on top. A bit of readjusting and they got comfortable, John beneath Sherlock, pillows tucked behind his back and shoulders to prop him up a bit. Sherlock was just a little smug that they’d managed to switch places like that without losing contact. In fact, the change of position pushed him a bit deeper into John’s body. John grunted, hooking his legs around Sherlock’s hips, and rocked back and forth to establish a rhythm. It didn’t take Sherlock long to find what worked for them and less time to reach climax, thanks in part to the foreplay.

 

But the sex was only half the fun. Once they had recovered and the condom had been removed and discarded and some cursory clean-up had taken place, John rolled them again and worked a mark into the skin where he planned to feed from Sherlock. He felt a familiar thrill and kept his muscles relaxed, taking slow, deep breaths to keep himself calm. He trusted John, who would never blatantly hurt him, but this was not going to be pleasant at first.

He had lived at Baker Street for six months, had remained clean in that time, and had been one of John’s two consistent “sip-feeders”. He was happy to provide the service to his friend, small recompense for all John did for him. John gave him a stable home, a place to do his work, helped him find cases and solve them, managed the finances of the household and made sure they didn’t end up out on the streets. Mrs Hudson would be long in her grave before she turned them out for some reason, she was quite fond of John; Sherlock suspected his landlady knew more about John Watson than anyone else in London and would take that knowledge to her deathbed.

John, reading Sherlock like an open book, kept him calm with some low-scale glamouring. A nifty trick that worked in other circumstances as well, a very useful one. It had kept him alive tonight, and now he could pay John back for risking _his_ life to get rid of Jim Moriarty once and for all.

“Are you ready, love?” John’s voice was soft in his ear. Sherlock nodded and made eye-contact.

“You need this, John.” He rubbed the back of John’s neck. His skin was much warmer than it had been, but not warm enough. John smiled and kissed him before going down. He worried the skin where it was marked, creating a vacuum that would allow him to control how much blood he drew. John leaned his head back and looked up at Sherlock, who nodded. It was time.

John buried his fangs in the willing body beneath him, tearing through skin and muscle and into the subclavian artery. His mouth flooded with saliva and he pushed it into the blood-stream with his tongue. Sherlock cried out above him as the lenitive venom raced to his brain and set off a flood of endorphins, dopamine and oxytocin through his body.

“J-John,” he choked out, his body no longer under his control as he was overwhelmed with the chemicals that made him John’s thrall. He closed his eyes and moaned low as he sipped from Sherlock, his taste sublime and so familiar he felt scorched from every point of contact between them. He knew how much he could safely take from a healthy human, how much he could take from Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes were nearly black – there was the sparest rim of indigo around his tumid pupils.

John felt it the moment Sherlock began to tip towards that blissful oblivion. It was the work of seconds to pull his fangs out, sealing each layer he had breached, going backwards – artery, muscle, skin – and then licking up the tiny rivulet of blood that escaped his mouth as he released Sherlock. His wound would heal within twenty-four hours. John held two fingers against his wrist to check his pulse. It had slowed down only a little. Sherlock came back to him slowly, coming back online a little bit at a time. He spent some time tending to the healing wound on Sherlock’s chest, admiring the way it would scar and the knowledge that he had put it there. He had taken more from Sherlock than he had taken from Greg and had essentially marked the dark-haired boffin as _his_.

-&-

Sherlock came back to complete awareness slowly, it was lovely. He felt an unusual ache in his chest and smiled. That was John’s bite-scar, did that mean he belonged to the unassuming vampire now?

“More or less.” John, of course. Right there as always. “Forgive me for being territorial.”

“I assume you were likewise with my predecessor?”

“Oh, very much so. I marked him in a similar manner, but it was far more violent.”

“You saved his life.”

“More or less.” John touched the edges of the plaster protecting the wound on his chest. “I would do the same for you. Either of you.”

“We know, John.” Greg popped his head up into view from the pile of blankets. Sherlock smiled and nuzzled against John’s cheek. John was clearly feeling much better, now was time for sleep. After some rearranging into a comfortable, familiar assemblage of bodies and limbs, Sherlock went to do some housekeeping in his Mind Palace. Lord knew he had some sorting and rearranging to do.

* * *

 


	11. Pictures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pictures of John's penthouse at Grosvenor House Suites in Mayfair

* * *

***

* * *

Mayfair Balcony View

* * *

 ***

* * *

 Living Room

* * *

***

* * *

 Study

* * *

 ***

* * *

 Kitchen

* * *

***

* * *

 Master Bedroom/John's Bedroom

* * *

 ***

* * *

 Guest Bedroom/Greg's Bedroom


End file.
